


Not Quite a Country Holiday

by EventHorizon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Gen, Kid Mycroft, Operation Pied Piper, World War II, kid Greg
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:36:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 73,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24950113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EventHorizon/pseuds/EventHorizon
Summary: Schoolboy Greg is evacuated from London during Operation Pied Piper and goes to live in the country with the Holmes family who have a son very nearly Greg's age, but completely unlike him in every other way imaginable.  It's a hard time for Britain but maybe one small portion of the countryside can host the birth of a beautiful friendship.  Or, at least, a tolerably pleasant association that can be endured  with a proper stiff upper lip...
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 928
Kudos: 379
Collections: Rupert Graves Birthday Collection 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EilidhOg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EilidhOg/gifts).



> This story is an offering for the splendiferous [EilidhOg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EilidhOg/gifts) who came up with a brilliant prompt and is an all-around amazing person. I was honored to be asked to do this and hope it brings them and other readers a smile!

“Alright, then. Let’s see you sorted.”

Greg turned his anxious brown eyes up towards the billeting officer and clutched his suitcase a little tighter as the man looked at the tag that was affixed to Greg’s coat. It had been scary on the train. Not the same sort of scary that he might feel in London with bombs falling but being packed into a train with kids he didn’t know to go someplace he didn’t know to stay with people he didn’t know… not knowing was a scary thing all by itself!

And he didn’t know how long it would be until he could see his mum again. She was working in a hospital and was very busy, so he didn’t see her as often as he’d like, but he _did_ get to see her every day and now he couldn’t and that was scary, too. His dad was fighting the evil Nazis so he couldn’t see him either and now he couldn’t see his dad or his mum or his friends or anyone he knew. He didn’t mind being alone; he was tough and smart and could make do on his own, but… it was still scary. You could admit something was scary and still be tough.

And he had to be tough. Brave, too. He was here so he could be safe and his mum wouldn’t have to worry about him or lose him like she was scared might happen with his dad. His mum was tops, the best! He had to be tough and brave so she didn’t have to worry and hurt and could help the sick people and soldiers get better as best she was able.

It was still scary, though.

“Greg Lestrade. Alright, lad, have a seat over there with the rest of the children. The host families will be here soon and I’m confident you’ll be picked by a very nice family who will give you a good home.”

“I have one already.”

“Come again?”

“I have a new home. I… my mum said it was a done thing that I had a new house to live in until I come home. To my real home, that is. In London. Here…”

Greg sat on the floor and opened his suitcase, taking out a small, slightly rumpled note that he handed to the officer.

“Oh. Oh, I see. The Holmes family. Well, yes… can’t cross them, now can we. Lucky lad you are, though. They’ve got a fair bit of money and lots of land to run about on. Sons, too. One… I think their oldest is about your age. You’ll have a friend to play with, won’t that be lovely.”

“My dad knows their dad. He worked with their dad in London. Before my dad went off to fight the Nazis.”

“Soldier, huh. Fine fellow, you father is. Doing what’s right to kick Jerry square in the bollocks. Alright, then. I’m sure Mrs. Holmes… or her staff… know the train schedule but I’ll ring them up just in case and say you’re here safe and sound. Greg, was it? Go ahead and have a seat. You have a nibble packed with you?”

“Yes. I… ate my sandwich on the train. I’ve got my apple, though. And some nuts.”

“Good. There’s water in the pitcher by the cups. Shouldn’t be a long wait. The Holmes’s are punctual people, unlike others I might mention, like that Norbert Tiller who keeps me waiting every time he’s to meet me at the pub. Anyway, I’ve got a call to make. Run along, that’s a good lad.”

Greg nodded and closed his suitcase, looking about the large hall for a moment before moving towards an empty bench set along a wall under one of the windows. He could have sat on a bench with other children but he wanted to eat his apple and nuts and not have to talk to anyone while doing that. Not that he didn’t _want_ to talk to the others, but not right now. He hadn’t napped on the train like some had and didn’t immediately see any of the kids in his train car that he’d chatted with on the trip and, besides, he was hungry and just wanted to eat and have a moment to… he didn’t know. Just sit and eat, really.

“Greg! Seems it’s your lucky day. They’re already here for you, lad. Come on, best get to it. Not right to keep the Holmes’s waiting.”

So much for sitting and eating. But he couldn’t be horrid because they’d said they’d take him in and Mummy said it was very generous of people like that to care about them and want to keep him safe. He could have his apple and nuts later. They were supposed to feed him, at least, that’s what Mummy said, so he could keep those aside in case he got hungry at night because they couldn’t put a lot on the plate at supper. Maybe he could get a job so he could buy food and help? Or show them how to grow things so they could grow their own food. His dad grew things for his wages and he’d learned a lot from watching and helping. Even knew how to grow a bit of veg because they had a little plot of their own to use and his mum and dad both grew lots of things to eat. Mum said to be helpful where he could, so…

“Master Lestrade?”

Greg looked around for the person who shared his surname then realized the tall, well-dressed man standing in the doorway was talking to him.

“Me?”

Best be certain, though.

“If you are Gregory Lestrade, then I do mean you. There is still time to claim you are Robin Hood, however, and dart away to rob the rich, so do think carefully.”

Greg giggled as the refined man waggled his eyebrows then stood as tall as possible and nodded firmly.

“I am Gregory Lestrade! Though I wouldn’t mind being Robin Hood. He knows how to shoot arrows and ride horses, which must be loads of fun.”

“I agree. I hope we are able to provide sufficient activities that you find your time with us to be loads of fun.”

“You… you’re not Mr. Holmes, are you? Mummy said he would probably be in London most of the time because of the war.”

“Well observed, Master Lestrade. I am Edwards, Mr. Holmes’s assistant and, for the time being, seeing you properly settled and assisting Mrs. Holmes with various tasks so her time in the country is both enjoyable and productive.”

“Oh. Alright. I know how to grow things.”

“That is an admirable skill.”

“I can help with that so there’s enough food for everyone. Mummy said to be helpful.”

“That would be very helpful indeed and I have little doubt the groundskeeper would appreciate the assistance. Perhaps you might convince Master Mycroft to join you. It would do him good to spend time outdoors.”

“I like being outdoors. There’s lots to do like play and work in our garden and throw balls and run.”

“And Master Mycroft would benefit from all of that, to be certain. Already you are contributing to our household, Master Lestrade. Very well done.”

Greg puffed with pride and followed after Edwards who motioned to join him to walk towards the large vehicle waiting outside the hall.

“That’s yours?”

“The Holmes’s actually, however, I am privileged to ride in it, on occasion.”

Instinctively dusting off his bum, Greg nodded once for no specific reason and gasped softly when another man exited the vehicle and opened the rear door.

“He’s wearing a uniform. Is he a soldier?”

“Charles? I have seen him fight a spanner when a nut was being particularly bothersome, but that is the extent of his military aspirations, I believe. He is Mr. Holmes’s, now Mrs. Holmes’s, driver.”

“He drives? What else?”

Greg missed the smirk that passed between Edwards and Charles who were mentally drawing up a list of various duties the driver, and the assistant, had to perform for the Holmes family. They stopped when the list required a new sheet of mental paper to continue.

“Oh, a bit of this and that, as necessary. It’s expected we all do what is necessary or helpful during this dreadful war.”

“That’s true. Are we ready to leave now?”

“Feeling eager to see your new home, Master Lestrade?”

“A little. I also have to wee.”

“Then let us be off. Charles, kindly use the ‘need to wee’ protocol for seeing us home in rapid fashion.”

“Of course, sir. Do prepare yourself, young master. It is not often that our speed reaches the necessary value for us to become airborne, but if the roads are clear I make no guarantees.”

A wide-eyed Greg climbed into the car and wedged his suitcase tightly under the driver’s seat to ensure it didn’t become a missile if they started to fly. That would be terrible! Though, he wouldn’t mind if that terrible thing happened because it would be the greatest thing ever. In the whole world.


	2. Chapter 2

Greg was disappointed the car didn’t take flight at any point on the drive, but was happy that Edwards showed him quickly to the toilet in the driver’s quarters above the garage so he could tend to that and not have his first impression to the Holmes family be a fidgeting boy with tightly crossed legs. And he could also take a moment Edwards said to wash his face and hands which was good because his mum said you should look your best when you met new people. He gave his skin a good scrub and used the comb in his suitcase to neaten his hair, which worked as well as it always did, which was poorly, but it was better than the messy weeds his dad said grew on his head instead of hair.

“Very smart and tidy, Master Lestrade. Mrs. Holmes will be pleased.”

“Can I..”

“Ask a question?”

“Yes.”

“Most surely.”

“Is she nice? Mum said she was nice, but Mum never met her so I don’t know how she would know that. I think she might have been saying it so I didn’t get scared.”

Edwards’s eyes softened and he felt a pang of sympathy for the young boy. It was a terrible thing, separating these children from their parents and friends, but the bombs _were_ falling now and a bit of time with new people was a better fate than what might meet them otherwise.

“Most Insightful. Mothers often do such things, don’t they? In any case, I will allay your concerns and state that, yes, Mrs. Holmes is a kind person. She is often busy, however, and may seem a touch distracted, at times, but if you require her attention, she will give it to you fully and will not be angered by the interruption.”

“Ok. And… you said there was a boy, too.”

“Ah, Master Mycroft. And Master Sherlock, though you will have little to do with him given he is but an infant. Mycroft is…”

Greg knew when people stopped talking like that, even if they started again, it meant they were having to think about their answer and make it seem not as bad as it actually was. Or not as something as it actually was but he was scared the something was something bad.

“… a quiet boy. Studious.”

“What’s that mean?”

“He enjoys spending his time reading. Examining maps and documents.”

‘You mean smart.”

“He is _very_ intelligent. And a good-hearted soul, in truth, but not one given to frivolity. I am hopeful you might be just the person to encourage him to embrace that a touch. It would do the lad a world of good.”

“What’s frivolitry?”

“ _Frivolity_ is whimsical. Taking actions simply for the fun of it. Gaining pleasure from small and silly things.”

“I’m good at all of that.”

“Excellent. Master Mycroft has not had occasion to socialize with many other children and I suspect that contributes to his quiet, solitary nature. This is shall be quite the opportunity for him. And for you.”

“I like making friends. I have five. No… seven. Maybe? I’m not sure about Peter because he’s rather daft. Actually, he’s very daft but likes to play marbles and I do, too.”

“Then let us hope you add another to your already impressive list.”

“Ok. Which… which one is their flat?”

Greg pointed towards the tall, expansive and staggeringly impressive building a short distance from the garage.

“What do you mean, Master Gregory?”

“There. Which in there is their flat? I hope it’s high up because it’d be nice to look out and see things like I was in a castle.”

Then you have a surprise waiting, young man.

“The entire house is their home. Even this structure is part of their residence.”

“What? The whole thing?”

“Yes.”

“How many people live there?”

“The Holmes family, when all are present, number four. And there is the staff. However, I do not believe the number is as large as you are imagining.”

“That whole house is theirs? They can go anywhere and nobody tells them off for it?”

“Just so.”

Greg looked hard at the enormous, palatial residence and found his brain couldn’t comprehend one family living in something that large, unless it was the King and his family. Oh…

“Is Mr. Holmes the king?”

That is a somewhat amusing question with which to wrestle, lad.

“No, they are merely a family of means and some measure of influence. In truth, I wager Master Mycroft has not explored the entire structure with any intensity in all his years. Perhaps that is an activity you could share.”

“I’d want to look everywhere! Is there a dungeon?”

Yes. And saw its fair share of use in the day, though that is, perhaps, a fact to withhold for now.

“There is an extensive cellar system. Do bring a torch if you intend to embark upon an expedition.”

“I’ll bring a torch and rope and a knife and a canteen and food. Is there a dog?”

“There is not.”

“That’s a shame. I’d bring it, too, so it could sniff and find hidden things like skeletons. And treasure.”

“Laudable forethought. Now… are you ready to meet the Holmes family?”

Greg cut hesitant eyes towards the house and Edwards waited a moment for him to gather his fortitude. To the young man’s credit, the nation’s top politicians, royals and battle-hardened generals and admirals behaved much the same way when they arrived here. And not only for their initial introduction.

“I’m ready.”

“Then off we go.”

Edwards paused a final moment while Greg made a last-minute rub of his finger across his teeth and wipe of said finger on his trousers, then led him towards the rear entrance where the young boy would have a gentler introduction to the pomp and circumstance of the house than through the front. What boy didn’t love a kitchen?

“It smells very good in here.”

“Boy has taste, that’s for certain.”

Edwards grinned at Mrs. Turner who paused stirring the large pot on the stove to run an eye over the new arrival.

“I’m Mrs. Turner, the cook.”

Greg dug deep for his best manners and tried to look like a boy who both had manners and knew how to use them.

“I am very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Turner. I’m Greg Lestrade and I’ll be eating your food. Which I’m sure is going to be very good because it smells that way and I’ve noticed that bad food tends to smell band, too, so there you have it. You must be tops!”

Mrs. Turner was, by nature, a somewhat dour woman, both by nature and from years of cooking for fussy politicians and aristocrats, but found her lips twitching into a small, unexpected, and long unpracticed smile at Greg’s cheery display of excellent manners.

“Bet your nose it is. And you’ll have a bit of it soon enough to know for yourself. Tell Mycroft I’ve got bread and honey waiting once you’ve been introduced. You can have it in here before going off for whatever trouble you lads are going to find. Be off with you now and… we’re happy to have you, Greg. You need anything, you come and see me or find Martha. We’ll see you sorted.”

With a ‘and that’s that’ nod, Mrs. Turner went back to stirring her pot and Edwards quickly packed away his grin before Greg caught him and asked about it. Which he would. There was really no doubt.

“Already you have met three of our household, Master Gregory, and survived the ordeal. I assure you, it will continue much the same. Now…”

Edwards withdrew the watch from his pocket and replaced it with a smile.

“… madame should be in the conservatory. I suspect it is a room that will meet with your approval.”

Greg wasn’t sure how to answer, so just nodded and followed along as Edwards led him from the kitchen into the family portion of the house where he had to stop occasionally as Greg’s small legs simply quit walking because his eyes demanded a moment to gaze at the splendor he’d only read about or seen pictures of in books or heard described on the radio. After a number of stops and starts, they finally reached their destination, which Edwards celebrated with a dramatic flinging open of the conservatory doors so the whole expanse of the plant-filled room was revealed at once.

It was beautiful. Greg had been around gardens his whole life and only seen brief views on the ones surrounding this house as they drove up to the garage but nothing could be as beautiful as this. Loads of flowers that he’d never seen! Not even once! And was even fruit! Little fruit trees in pots and everything was windows so you could see outside and there was a fireplace. And a fountain! With water! AAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!

“I see our guest approves of my little Eden.”

Greg whirled, red-cheeked and wide eyed, at the voice to his right where a tall, dark-haired woman in a pale blue dress stood, smiling at him and holding a few long-stemmed cut flowers that were about to join others in a crystal vase.

“It’s amazing! This is yours?”

“It is and I am happy you find it as lovely as I do.”

“It is. It’s the loveliest room I’ve ever seen. It must be a lot of work to keep tidy, though.”

Edward and his employer shared a look that said a certain Martha Hudson would agree profusely and in elaborate detail.

“Without question, but one finds in life that precious things often require special care.”

“That’s true. My mum has a little cat, not a real one, one that you set on your mantle, that she got from her grandmother and she has to be very careful when she cleans it that she doesn’t break it because it’s very precious to her. Her grandmother is dead, you see, so she can’t give another one and that would be that.”

Greg threw his hands up to emphasize his point and it was a struggle on the part of the adults to keep their expressions thoughtful and composed.

“I am glad you fathom my point so thoroughly.”

A small flicker of light had been shining in Greg’s brain and he wondered if now was the time to let it dash out of his mouth.

“I… are you Mrs. Holmes?”

There was a quiver in his voice that he certainly didn’t intend to accompany the dashing but he really didn’t want to be wrong because the woman with the flowers was nice and smiled and it would make him feel a lot better if this was Mrs. Holmes and she wasn’t actually waiting somewhere to leap out and give him a scolding for bothering whoever this person turned out to be.

“I am, Gregory. Welcome to our home. Which, I hope you will consider your home, as well, while you are in residence. Did you enjoy your journey here?”

“We rode on a train to Brighton once, but I’ve never done it by myself. I did it, though, and wasn’t afraid. Not even a little.”

Greg made sure his fingers were crossed in his pocket so the lie didn’t count.

“Such fortitude. You shall make an exemplary addition to our household. Edwards, Mycroft is in the library, no doubt. Take Gregory to meet him, will you, and tell Mycroft to show our guest his room once they have become acquainted. Then, I am most certain Mrs. Turner has something delectable for them to celebrate Gregory’s arrival.”

“Bread and honey! She said so when I met her.”

“Ooh, what a treat. The honey is from our own bees and I can vouch for its flavor. Well, I shall leave you to it, then, and will see you again at dinner. I do hope you have a good appetite.”

“I love food! I can eat lots, too.”

“Then you are certain to be enamored of Mrs. Turner, which will surely make your stay a more pleasant one.”

Edwards stifled a snort, then ushered Greg out of the conservatory and towards the library where, yes, it was fairly certain Mycroft could be found.

“She _is_ nice.”

“Madame is an exceptionally genial individual.”

Unless you are one of the myriad of villains who deserve naught but a flaying of your skin from your living bones, in which case, she will happily turn her most acidic tongue to the task and kick you in the arse for good measure.

“And I have my own room?”

“You do. It is next to Master Mycroft’s. I believe you will find it comfortable.”

“I probably will. My bed at home is lumpy but dad says he wouldn’t buy a new mattress until I need a new bed and I can’t have that until I grow some more my bed is too small for me. I’m almost there! I measure every Thursday and I only have three inches left. Of course, with the war I may have to wait a bit after that but that’s alright. Fighting Nazis is more important than my new bed.”

Given Greg’s young age, Edwards lamented the number of years he had remaining on his lumpy mattress, wartime concerns or not.

“Are you eating properly? Getting vigorous exercise?”

“I am.”

“Then I have no doubt you will outgrow your bed in short order. Ah… here we are.”

Edwards walked through the open door and Greg gaped at the size and contents of the library. This one was equally nice and almost as big as the ones his parents sometimes took him to when they wanted him to have culture. Whatever that meant. Tall ceilings, shelves on the walls and standing on their own just like a proper library had, with tables and a globe and some desks by the windows and…

“It’s a library.”

“That it is. A functional one, not simply present to allow the family to affect an intellectual air. Do browse at will and, if you fail to find something that sparks your interest, we shall make changing the situation a priority during our next shopping excursion. Madame and Master Mycroft are always happy for the chance to add books to the collection.”

Greg had a suspicion that the sorts of books he liked might not fit in a place like this, but Mrs. Holmes was nice and so was Edwards, so maybe they wouldn’t mind a shelf of adventure stories with knights and dragons and pirates and the like.

“Master Mycroft? Our guest, Gregory, has arrived. Your mother would appreciate it if you showed him his room and then Mrs. Turner has for you both something in the kitchen.”

Greg peeked around Edwards towards one side of the room and saw a boy seated at one of the large tables which was stacked with books, one of which was open next to a pad of paper upon which a pencil was being held still as if frozen in time.

“I see.”

Peering closer, Greg marked the expression on the boy’s plumpish face and it didn’t fill him with confidence that his good fortune with members of the Holmes household was going to continue for long.

“Hi. I’m Greg.”

With the pencil placed on the table and the book closed with a sigh and an audible thump, Mycroft rose and slowly walked towards the door.

“So I am told. I am Mycroft Holmes.”

The hand that reached out was stiff and formal as if the person extending knew he hoped in vain that it wouldn’t be accepted.

“Hi. I’m Greg Lestrade. It’s… good to meet you?”

Edwards winced slightly at the questioning tone, but it couldn’t be helped. Master Mycroft was… Master Mycroft. Young Gregory had demonstrated a fair bit of insight and certainly was not afraid to speak his mind, however, and that could be a victorious combination of traits for interacting with his new companion. He smiled, at least, when shaking hands. Maybe, since the lad showed willing, Mycroft would reciprocate.

“I suppose.”

In time.

“Well… let me leave you to it, Master Mycroft. Master Gregory, if you require anything, do not hesitate to ask. It is neither a burden nor an imposition.”

“I will! Won’t. Which is it that means I’ll ask if I need anything?”

Mycroft condescending sigh went unnoticed by Greg who was still pondering the structure of Edwards’s sentences.

“Won’t is technically correct, Master Gregory, but I gleaned your meaning, regardless. Good day to you both.”

Edwards took his time walking away from the boys in case something untoward erupted in his wake. Not that he could imagine Mycroft doing anything particularly untoward, at least in an overt manner, however he had been particularly discontent of late and growing boys did strange things, at times.

Watching Edwards walk off and finally turn a corner, Greg felt a bit like a dinghy that had been unmoored from a stately vessel and left to bob along on the open water alone.

“Can I see the library?”

Said with what Greg hoped was an eager smile but wasn’t surprised it wasn’t returned in kind.

“I suppose.”

“You say that a lot.”

“I sup… drat.”

“That’s ok, though. It sounds smart unlike the sorts of things I say a lot like ‘can I pet it?’ and ‘what ho!’ and ‘smell this.’ “

“What ho?”

“Sure! My mates and I play pirates and soldiers and knights and explorers and you can say What Ho! for all of those. It doesn’t sound particularly smart, though, just… loud.”

Mycroft stared quizzically at Greg and found himself in the rare position of having no idea how to respond.

“So, can I see the library? Or we could go to my room. Either is fine. Or just go to the kitchen and get our bread and honey because there’s never a wrong time for that. You have bees.”

“Pardon? But… yes, we do.”

“Your mum told me. Can I see them? Have you named them? Can I pet them?”

“One… does not pet bees.”

“Why not? Maybe they’d like it. Have you asked?”

Mycroft again stood and blinked blankly at Greg’s words, then began walking away without a word.

“Are we going to pet the bees now? Mycroft? Are you hard of hearing? It’s ok if you are, I’ll just talk louder. ARE WE GOING TO PET THE BEES NOW? ARE THEY FAR? DO WE NEED A COMPASS? OR A MAP? OR BREAD AND HONEY? ARE MY SHOES OK? MYCROFT YOU’VE GOT POSH SHOES AND THEY’RE MAYBE NOT GOOD FOR GOING PLACES WE NEED A COMPASS AND MAP FOR. COULD BE A SWAMP! WITH QUICKSAND! YOU DON’T WANT YOUR POSH SHOES ALL QUICKSANDY WHILE YOU GET DRAGGED UNDER! ARE THERE VINES IN THE BEE SWAMP SO I CAN RESCUE YOU?”

Edwards and Mrs. Hudson struggled not to laugh from their well-concealed hiding place as they watched Mycroft march down the corridor, trailed by an air raid siren.

“That Greg’ll be good for him, I wager.”

“I hope so, Martha. He’s been so glum. More than typical, that is.”

“Misses his dad, probably. Well, I’ll unpack Greg’s things and make certain there’s enough soap and cloths ready for his bath.”

“ _Lots_ of soap and wash cloths, I hope.”

“I’ll empty the cupboards. If there’s a person alive who could actually find a bee swamp on the grounds, I suspect it’s that boy.”

“And fall into it.”

“The question is whether he pulls Mycroft in with him.”

“A good swallow of gin if he does?”

“I’ll have the glasses standing ready.”


	3. Chapter 3

“You shan’t have my forgiveness! Ever!”

“I said I was sorry. Five hundred times!”

“You are horrid, Gregory Lestrade. Positively horrid and a blighter, besides.”

“Nooooooo….”

Mrs. Turner and Mrs. Hudson tut-tutted and continued to put bicarbonate paste on the bee stings, while removing the boys’ wet, muddy clothes currently dripping onto the kitchen floor.

“Oh my… well, Edwards did say to brace for a shock.”

And Mycroft’s mother knew well that Edwards did not say such things lightly.

“Mummy! Send him away immediately!”

Greg’s body started to tremble and not entirely from being wet and trying not to cry from being stung by bees – who didn’t let you pet them at all!

“Don’t be silly, Mycroft. Besides, you and Gregory are of an age, so if you expire from your apian encounter, he will be a suitable replacement for you as my eldest son.”

Mrs. Hudson whispered in Greg’s ear a bevy of reassurances that he was not going to be turned out nor would he be taken prisoner to stand in for a Holmes son murdered most foul by bees.

“I think not! He is… filthy. And dimwitted. And uncouth. Uncultured, loud, loutish… I could stand here all day, cold, wet and in excruciating pain listing his demerits!”

“Mrs. Turner, how many stings does Mycroft possess?”

“One.”

“As I thought.”

“And I have savaged my knee!”

All three women peered at Mycroft’s knee, then peered harder. And harder still.

“Were the savages microscopic, my son?”

“The redness! You cannot deny it. That is clearly a contusion which shall be terribly bruised and crippling my nightfall.”

“An egg is redder than your knee.”

“Untrue! And it is all his fault. The… villain! Interloper and villain!”

Greg’s eyes began to tear up but Mycroft merely made a rude face and stormed off to wash the entire day from his body and mind.

“I really AM sorry! I just wanted to pet the bees and they really didn’t want that. Not at all! They got very mad and started buzzing and flying at us and we ran and I remembered from a book that if you were chased by bees or hornets or sheep you should jump in a lake or stream because they won’t chase you anymore, so when I saw that little pond I pushed Mycroft in and jumped in after him and they stopped chasing us but it made Mycroft angrier and…”

Greg’s words caught in this throat and he started crying, something he hadn’t done since he was very small two long years ago. Maybe three!

“It was valorous of you, Gregory, to take decisive action to protect Mycroft and yourself. How many stings did you receive for your day’s adventures?”

“Ummm… dunno.”

Mrs. Hudson held up four fingers out of Greg’s eyesight and Mummy Holmes gave a small nod.

“Is it more than one?”

“I…. maybe?”

“And you are doing your utmost to be stoic and bear your suffering without complaint. Which is appreciated since Mycroft has complained enough for the both of you and a legion of disgruntled church matrons, besides. I deem that very worthy of a piece of Mrs. Turner’s exceptional berry pie once you have enjoyed a bath. Your clothes are in your room, with a few additional items added in to supplement your wardrobe. The weather can be somewhat unpredictable and I would hate for you to be caught unawares. Until later, Gregory. And thank you for safeguarding Mycroft. He is unfamiliar with the… techniques for successfully exploring the natural world and he is fortunate to have you about now to provide instruction.”

Greg stared after the stately woman striding out of the kitchen and waited until she was fully out of sight before letting out the breath he was holding.

“I’m not being scolded?”

Mrs. Turner gave Greg a pat on his head and turned back towards getting the night’s meal prepared, and a special something for pudding to brighten Greg’s spirits, in addition to his slice of pie, leaving Mrs. Hudson to finish tending to his stings and substantially bruised heart.

“No. You didn’t do anything to deserve a scolding.”

“I made Mycroft angry. And we got wet. A bit stinky, too.”

“You were having a spot of fun, that’s all. Wet and stinky often travel hand in hand with that at your age.”

“I don’t think that’s true for Mycroft. He was aaarrrgggghhhh.”

Greg raised his hands like claws and bared his teeth as he growled. Which was how it had seemed to him when Mycroft rose from the pond and looked as if he was going to tiger-pounce on the person who pushed him in.

“Well… true. He has his fun a bit differently than most but you two were doing _your_ sort of fun and not his, so there’s nothing out of sorts here. How are your stings?”

“They hurt, but not as much.”

“Good lad. Now, have a bath and hurry back for your treat. Be mindful of the time, though. Your mum expects you to telephone her and will surely be cross if you forget.”

“I won’t! I have the number in my suitcase and Mr. Porter, the grocer, will be certain no one tries to use the phone when Mum’s asked it to be left open for her. I help at the shop sometimes, so he’s nice and says yes when Mum asks to use his telephone. And, of course, this is very important. She’s been working very hard all day taking care of people and shouldn’t have to worry that I was tossed out of the train window and got eaten by some pigs or a very large fish.”

“That’s a danger, I can’t say it’s not. Off with you, then. And leave your wet togs… what you still have, that is… on the floor of the bath. I’ll collect them later for a wash.”

“Alright. Thank you for putting goo on my stings.”

Greg sped off for his bath, which Mrs. Hudson was certain would involve some degree of splashing, commotion and enough suds to make mopping the ceiling a necessary part of her tidying.

“Mycroft isn’t going to make it easy on him, is he, Martha?”

“Not in the slightest. But, maybe that’s a good thing. Greg will have to learn to deal with people who aren’t immediately charmed by his sweet nature and Mycroft will have to learn to cope with those who ask more of him than to stand there and think.”

“This horrid war might just last long enough for those lessons to be learned.”

“We can only hope.”

__________

_knock, knock_

“I am not receiving callers.”

“What?”

“Especially you.”

Greg stared at Mycroft’s bedroom door and tried to decide what was a caller and if he was or was not properly described as one.

“Can I come in?”

“Was I not clear?”

“Not really.”

“You are dunderheaded.”

“That was a little clearer.”

“I have no wish to speak to you. Begone.”

Mrs. Hudson said it might be hard to get Mycroft to listen to him because Mycroft could be a toad in the mud sometimes, just sitting there burrrrakkkking at him until he caught a fly or two and sorted out his colon, but he’d brought a fly, so that should help.

“I’ve got pie.”

A pie fly.

“Pie?”

“Yeah, I had a piece and now you can have a piece. It’s very good.”

“What kind?”

“Berry.”

The silence stretched out to the point Greg was having a hard time not eating the pie himself but he finally heard the doorknob turn and quickly took his fingers off the bit of crust he was about to break off and introduce to his mouth.

“You have delivered the pie. You may go.”

“Nope. Mrs. Hudson said I had to deliver it into your room or I could have it all myself.”

Which was sounding more and more like a good idea, to be honest.

“That is unfair.”

“It’s not my rule, so I can’t say if it is or isn’t. Can I come in?”

Mycroft glared a long moment, then snorted and stepped aside for Greg to walk through the door.

“This is nice room. Ooh… what’s that?”

Greg ran over to the console along one wall being very careful not to spill Mycroft’s pie onto the floor because then nobody would have it then and Mycroft would be angry again which would be even less fun than before due to the lack of extra pie.

“That is a radiogram.”

“What’s that?”

“It is an entertainment device housing both a wireless radio and a record player. This model has a record changer, also.”

“It does all that?”

“Yes. It is very expensive, so I am not surprised you have not seen one.”

“I haven’t and I’d remember it if I did. Our wireless is in the kitchen, but we can hear it anywhere in the flat. Mum likes to listen when she’s cooking so that’s the best place for it now. It used to be on the little table near the window by my father’s chair but she moved it since he’s away fighting Nazis and can play it more quietly when she’s working so as not to bother Mrs. Warner next door. Oh, here’s your pie. Can we listen to something while you eat it?”

Greg’s excited face made Mycroft’s hair ache from his follicles tensing in irritation, but it did provide an opportunity to show the interloper with extreme clarity why he was ill-suited to be here.

“Very well. I shall play a record.”

Mycroft carefully set his pie aside, found a record that sounded particularly exceptional with this equipment and started it playing while he walked his pie over to his desk to sit and eat. His follicles got another spot of exercise when Greg hopped on his bed and began swinging his feet.

“I would prefer you not soil my bed linens.”

“My bum’s clean! So are my trousers.”

“That is beside the point.”

‘Not really. This music is amazing! It’s like it’s all over everywhere and it’s so… well, there’s naught for hisses and scratches and the like, is there? My friend Steven’s brother has one of those, but it’s a small thing he sets on his bed usually and it doesn’t sound nearly as nice as that. Or have a wireless. Better than nothing, though! Except when he sings along with what’s playing because he sounds like a cat what’s been attacked by a goose, but he works at the docks, so what does it matter?”

“I doubt his model cost £85.”

Greg promptly fell off the bed, negating his clean-bum assertions.

“Wh… £85. No. Nothing costs that much! Not even a house!”

“Pfft. Your plebian sensibilities shine forth yet again. This is a luxury model for those worthy to have such things.”

“How long did you have to work to save for it?”

“Work? Are you mad?”

“I work at the green grocers and save for what I want. All my mates do something to earn a bob or two. What do you do?”

“I… I am above such menial obligations.”

“Did you steal it?”

“I would never!”

“Then what’d you do? I can’t even imagine what you’d have to do to earn that much. There’s not enough sweeping, sorting and shelving one can do to earn that in a hundred years. Unless it’s skilled trade but you’ve not got enough experience for that. Haven’t lived long enough! My dad worked with Mr. Stuart for a long time learning how to be a proper gardener and now he works in loads of gardens. Big ones! And parks. Gets to work outside all day, which is the best! He said he works with your dad, so you must know precisely how the best that is because your dad must love it, too.”

“Not ‘with.’ For.”

“What?”

“Your father works for mine, not with. With implies some degree of equal status which is in no manner the case. The idea is positively laughable.”

“Your dad is the head gardener?”

“My father is the British Government! And your father is only one of the numerous drones who tend the city’s parks and gardens. It is only because he works often near Whitehall that Father took any notice of him at all.”

“Drone! That’s a bee term, isn’t it? HA! You made a bee joke!”

Greg started laughing which severely undercut Mycroft’s attempted insult.

“You are a bounder!”

“Ok, so can we listen to another record when this one is done?”

The direct insult path also failed. This Gregory Lestrade was nefarious. And unsporting!

“You have delivered the pie. You will now depart.”

“Nah, I like it in here. I like it in my room, too. Have you seen it? It’s easily as nice as this one, but doesn’t have as many books and fun things like your radiospam.”

“Radiogram!”

“Ok, and those records and books. Did I say books before? My room doesn’t have that so I’ll stay in here awhile and we can listen to music or a wireless program or read books or play a game. I know lots of games if you don’t have one we want to play right now. Do you have any cards?”

A tick! A tick had affixed itself to his flesh and was chewing with arachnoid intensity!

“Leave!”

“Why? We’re having fun!”

A tick with severely limited cognitive development!

“We are not having fun. You are being a horrendous bother and, frankly, that is a beastly thing for a guest to do.”

The grin melted off Greg’s face and he turned his head to face and look up at Mycroft.

“I don’t want to be beastly. Or a bother. Just to do fun things with you and be friends.”

“In that, you have and will continue to fail. Now, this is my bedroom and I do not want you here. Please leave.”

Greg looked and looked harder but didn’t see any hint that Mycroft was joshing about.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“You… don’t want to play with me?”

“No.”

“You don’t want to be my friend?”

“No.”

“I…”

“Please. Leave.”

Mycroft moved to the radiogram and lifted the needle, taking off the record and completely ignored Greg while, at the same time, making it abundantly clear that he _was_ ignoring Greg and would continue to do so until he left. Which, after slowly sitting up and waiting for any last-moment change of mind on Mycroft’s part, Greg did without a word of goodbye.

Walking across the hall to his own room, Greg kicked at the door, then remembered he wasn’t in his own home where his bedroom doorknob needed repair and he could just give his door a kick and have it open, and turned the knob to actually enter his very nice, but not-the-same-as-Mycroft’s-room room. Then it was a few… quite a few… more steps to his own little desk that he had dragged over so he could sit at it and look directly of the window. That was alright Mrs. Hudson had said. He could move things about as he liked, though if he wanted to move something heavy he should ask for help.

Now, though, he just wanted to look out of the window at the gardens and… just look, really. He loved gardens! He loved that his dad got to work in them every day when he wasn’t fighting Nazis and came home smelling of dirt and grass and sunshine. Mycroft probably hated all of that. He definitely hated dirt and water and bees, so grass and sunshine were probably on the list, too! Probably hated clouds and flowers and trees and balls and cats and swords and pirates and monkeys and marbles and checkers and hide and seek. Probably hated everything fun and lovely and outdoors and everything. Just everything. Because he was mean. Mean people didn’t like nice and fun things. That’s what made them mean! Even if they had a wireless that cost as much as a house, they still hated fun and fun things and were horribly, terribly mean.

Greg continued to look out his window for awhile, watching the birds and clouds and all the things that not-mean people liked. He missed his friends. He missed his mum and it was a LONG time until he could talk to her on the telephone. At least two hours! And there was nobody to play with since Mycroft was mean. He didn’t actually need anyone to play with, though. He played on his own a lot and it was loads of fun!

Hopping off his chair, Greg ran out of his room and down the stairs, barreling like a missile for one of the doors that led out to the gardens, whooping loudly when he broke the indoors/outdoors barrier and continuing to run because running was fun and there was lots of space to run and air to breathe and bugs to watch and places to explore and treasure to find… all you had to do was… do it! Which he could. He was great at doing things!

And that mean Mycroft… looking out the window right now and seeing all the fun you’re missing because you’re horrid and mean. You keep watching and frowning and looking sad because you know you’re mean and mean people don’t get to do fun things. Go play with your bed linens why don’t you? They’re clean and that’s all you like, apparently. Clean and boring. Not me! I’m going to climb a tree and look at stones and all sorts of fun things all by myself. Because I’m fun! And nice! Ha! Pzzzzbbbttttt… there, one rude noise just for you. And it startled a rabbit!

“Come back, I want to pet you!”

Greg sped off after the rabbit while Charles continued to polish the Riley Mrs. Holmes wanted to take out that evening and cast glances between the raucous boy racing across the grounds and the quiet boy watching him from an upper window. One day, perhaps, Mycroft might be chasing after a rabbit, laughing with a friend by his side, but today was not that day. However, young Greg had only just arrived here, for pity’s sake. There was ample time for the two to become fast friends and enjoy this time they had together.

And, if that didn’t go as hoped, the house was large enough that they could go days without laying eyes on each other with no effort whatsoever…


	4. Chapter 4

“I promise! I’m being _very_ good and not being a bother at all.”

Greg’s mother smiled and savored the sense of relief she felt that her son was safe and, as importantly, not upset in his new surroundings.

“That’s my Greg. The Holmes’s were extremely kind and generous to let you stay with them, so the least we can do to repay them is for you to be helpful and well-behaved.“

“I am. Mrs. Holmes and the people who work here are very nice and I had pie and saw bees and have a BIG room with my very own bath that I don’t have to share with anyone which is good because I already had to use it…”

Twice. He’d had a LOT of fun exploring and found all sorts of things to see and play with. Most of which were dirty but that was ok, because being dirty was easy to fix. You just needed water and the Holmes’s had all the water a person could want, most likely. Hot, too!

“… so I know it works properly, not like ours that sometimes needs help to get started with the actual water-bringing part.”

“Good to know you’re staying clean. Make certain to tidy yourself, too, if Mrs. Holmes or someone takes you out in public. You don’t want to look shabby and embarrass the family. They’re important people and you represent them now when out and about.”

“Like you make me comb my hair before going to the shops?”

“Exactly like that. Now, I know you’ll eat well and have lots of room to run and play so… have fun, Greg. We’ll have you home as soon as they say it’s safe but until then, have fun and enjoy this opportunity.”

“I will. I had lots of fun today, already!”

Not the bee stings or mean Mycroft, but the rest was tops!

“I couldn’t be happier for you, Greg, I truly couldn’t. And, now, I can gladly free the phone for Mr. Porter to use for actual grocery business. Write often, alright? And I’ll write, too.”

“I’ll write, I promise. I have a desk in my room, so I can sit in there and look out the window and write. Or sit in the kitchen and write letters because it smells very nice and Mrs. Turner has lots of things to eat that she lets me have like pie.”

“I’ll leave you to it, then. We’ll talk again in a few weeks, maybe, alright?”

“Alright. Mum… are you going to be lonely without me?”

That was a question with no simple answer, not that Greg could realize it at his age.

“Ummmm… yes and no. Yes, I will be _very_ lonely without you and will miss you terribly, just like I miss your father, each and every day. But I’m not going to let myself be sad because of it. I’ll think, instead, about you having a lovely time in the country, being safe and happy, and coming home soon so we can be a family again with your dad. That’s what I want you to do, too, Greg. Don’t be sad, even if you miss me and your dad very much. Look to the good and be brave.”

“I’ll do my best! Goodbye, mum.”

“Goodbye, Greg. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Greg set down the handset of the phone and sighed. He _was_ going to miss his mum. Miss her a lot. It was very nice here, but it wasn’t his flat, with his mum and his toys and his mates. Make do, though. That’s what mum said all the time. Make do. Make do and mend, actually, but he didn’t know how to sew yet so that bit he’d have to leave to someone else, but he _could_ make do. And he would. He had to be brave and make do until he could go home again.

“Master Gregory?”

“Huh? Oh, Mr. Edwards. Hello. I rang Mum. Right on time, too.”

“Punctuality is always appreciated. Madame wished to know if you preferred to have your dinner in your room or in the dining room. She shall be out and Master Mycroft has asked not to be disturbed and will dine in his room tonight.”

“Oh… I…”

“Does your mother, perhaps, not allow you to eat in your bedroom.”

“She doesn’t. Sometimes I sneak biscuits in and then we get mice because of crumbs that I don’t find to eat. And she says mealtime is for families, so we should eat together when we’re able.”

“Very much madame’s philosophy when she is at home. However, tonight you have a wealth of options and nary the smallest mouse with which to concern yourself.”

“Can I… eat in the kitchen?”

“Hmmmm… I fail to see a reason why not. It would also allow you time to discuss with Mrs. Turner any particular food likes or dislikes that she might factor into her daily menus.”

“I don’t want to be a bother. Mum said I should do my best not to.”

“A laudable objective, Master Gregory, and one that will be appreciated greatly. However, Mrs. Turner does prefer that those for whom she cooks enjoy what they are provided. Let us say, then, that you will dine in the kitchen tonight and with Madame and Master Mycroft in the dining room tomorrow.”

“Ok. When is it?”

“Dinner? Given you are dining alone, it can be at any hour, I suppose.”

“I need to wash my hands.”

“Most hygienic. When you are ready, do perform your handwashing and whatever other activities you might enjoy, then report to the kitchen. I will notify Mrs. Turner to expect you at some point.”

“Alright.”

“And might you wish to see the village tomorrow? I have several errands to run and you are welcome to accompany me. We might use the time to see you better provided with entertainment opportunities.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Books, toys, games, perhaps a wireless for your room.”

The household hope had been a certain someone would be content to share _his_ but that could take some time to actually occur, so…

“Really? I… I don’t want to be a bother.”

“Nor shall you be. Do not forget that our government does contribute to the upkeep of children evacuated from the cities.”

Not that the Holmes’s are accepting it because that would be uselessly wasteful, but the poor child should not fret about a few items to make his stay more enjoyable.

“Oh. Mum said that but I forgot. Then, yes, I want to look at toys and games and books. And I can really have a wireless?”

“Most certainly. We have any number of them about, but most are large and cumbersome, which you may not want in your bedroom. Despite the various shortages, I am confident we shall find for you something appropriate.”

“Amazing! My own wireless! That’s… ha! Mycroft and his £85 radioplum… pffbbbttt! Mine is going to loads better because it’ll be… uhhhhh….”

“Sleek?”

“Yeah! Sleek. And I know all the good programmes so I don’t have to fall behind with the stories. This is the best!”

The insufficiently muffled, indignant snort from behind him verified that, as Edwards had suspected, a little fly had been spying on them, though not quite from a position high on a wall.

“Then I shall plan on your company. Now, are you set with what you require for the remainder of the evening?”

“I think so. I found a book in the library about ships that has lots of pictures so I’m going to read it. And maybe draw some ships.”

“An excellent plan. In that case, I will attend to other matters, but do find me or one of the staff if you find you require anything.”

“I will. Thanks!”

Edwards smiled and walked off towards the room’s second door, so Mycroft might continue to believe his spying went undetected. If he used an optimistic turn of mind, he would consider the fact that this was the young master’s way of learning more about their guest and from knowledge might follow confidence and a lessening of whatever bile the lad was carrying in his belly.

Besides, he’d wager a month’s pay that Greg would exit in the other direction, coming across young Master Mycroft and that was certainly just deserts for being quite so sloppy with his spying.

“Oh. Hi, Mycroft.”

One day, he should turn his career towards becoming a riverboat gambler…

“Ahem. Yes. Gregory.”

“Ummm… I rang my mum. Edwards showed me where a telephone was.”

“As you say.”

“How… how is your sting? And your knee?”

“Bothersome.”

Greg wasn’t sure if he was supposed to be chatting with Mycroft since he’d been told that they weren’t going to be friends, but how could you not talk to someone when you nearly ran into them and they hadn’t walked away yet because they didn’t want to talk to since you weren’t their friend? This was very complicated…

“Mine were a little, too, but after I rolled in the grass they really didn’t sting anymore.”

“Why would you possibly roll in the grass?”

“I was waiting for the rabbit to come out from under the shrub. I think he ran out the other side, though, because I finally poked about and he wasn’t there. It’s alright because I saw others when I was exploring, so I’ll have other chances to pet one. They’re soft and I’d like to see just how soft they are for myself.”

“You are obsessed with petting things.”

“How else do you know what they feel like?”

“Why is that important?”

“Because things like that _are_ important. What things are like. What they feel like and smell like and taste like… you can see them with your eyes and that’s easy. Hear them with your ears and that’s easy, too, but the rest can take a bit of work depending on what you’re trying to learn about. Like the rabbit!”

Mycroft stared at Greg, failing utterly to fathom how his mind worked. Though, he very grudgingly had to admit, it _was_ working because he seemed to recognize, at minimum, the importance of gaining knowledge firsthand.

“If you were applying your reasoning to something other than a rabbit… or bees… your argument might have greater merit.”

“How about crocodiles?”

“That…”

He was going to say that was nonsensical but crocodiles _were_ fascinating creatures.

“… would stand as relevant only to the point that they could be compared to alligators or other reptiles.”

Which sounded much more intelligent than he liked crocodiles and actually _would_ like to know what one felt like for himself.

“Ok, one day maybe I can pet them, too. I’m not sure how because I’m not sure where alligators live, but I can find out. Maybe…”

Should he? Mycroft wasn’t being mean right now, but he wasn’t exactly being nice either. What would his dad do? Maybe he should ask what his mum would do, instead, because his dad was a soldier now and they were supposed to shoot the mean Nazis and that was a bad idea here. Mycroft wasn’t a Nazi! And he didn’t have a gun. Or know how to shoot it. Or want to, anyway. It would be very messy and Mrs. Hudson would certainly scold him for having to clean bits of Mycroft off the rug.

“… do you have a book about them? We could see where they live and maybe someone already said crocodiles feel like this and alligators feel like that, which is completely different. Or the same! We don’t know.”

Mycroft did not miss for an instant the ‘ _we_ could see’ tucked in and frowned in disapproval.

“Mummy has granted you access to the library. My presence is not needed for you to take a book.”

“No, but… I don’t know where it is! If there’s a book like that you probably know or could find it much faster than me.”

“Undoubtedly. However, I have other things to do.”

“What?”

“I… if you must pry, I am going to read to my brother.”

“Isn’t he a baby?”

“That matters not. The reading is to stimulate his brain and improve its development.”

“Oh. Ok. Can I read to him, too?”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed and Greg stood very still because he’d seen a drawing of a snake in a storybook that looked very much like that. If you stood very still snakes, even evil-eyed ones, left you alone. Probably.

“Why would you want to do that?”

“Why not?”

“I asked you first.”

“Yeah, but, I sort of answered, even if it was a question.”

“Sort of answering is not answering.”

“Ok… I like to read.”

“Then make haste to the library.”

“Can I see your brother?”

“Why would you want to do that?”

“Why not?”

Mycroft threw his hands up in a supreme showing of righteous indignation.

“You are doing that on purpose!”

“Doing what?”

“You… I have no idea whether you are strategically vexing me or simply being buffoonish.”

“Ok, so can I see your brother?”

“Of course you can, Gregory. Mycroft, show Gregory to the nursery.”

Mycroft’s teeth clenched tightly hearing his mother’s voice and they clenched near to cracking with that voice’s directive.

“Thanks, Mrs. Holmes! I promise I won’t wake him if he’s sleeping. Babies need sleep.”

“That they do, though Sherlock does seem to defy conventions whenever possible. I am leaving for the evening boys, do behave in my absence, but I hope you find something entertaining with which to amuse yourselves.”

Giving her driving gloves a good slap into her open palm, Mycroft’s mother smiled warmly and continued towards the garage, listening carefully for the sound of chaos erupting behind her as it was wont to do with young boys. Not that such had ever applied to Mycroft, but Gregory was bringing out some interesting behaviors in her son. The consequences of that, however, remained to be seen.

“So, can we see the baby now?”

“I… suppose.”

Mycroft huffed and stomped away from Greg, then realized how undignified he looked and adjusted his stride and posture to make clear how stellar was his breeding and comportment. That Greg skipped along after him implied his vaunted breeding was being wholly ignored because his guest was a unrepentant scalawag.

The walk to the nursery was completed in silence except for Greg’s happy humming to accompany his skipping. And occasional hopping. Just listening to the chaotic cadence was more physical exertion than Mycroft ever wished to contemplate in this lifetime or the next.

“We are here.”

Mycroft’s formal announcement was punctuated by a dramatic opening of the door, something quite undercut by his cut-off yelp which sounded to Greg very much like one that had been honed by long practice. Peering over Mycroft’s shoulder, the yelping’s rationale was fully on display.

“The baby’s not in his cot.”

“No, he is not.”

“He’s on the floor.”

“He is.”

“What’s he got in his hand?”

Mycroft cast an eye around the room and spied the small stack of correspondence on the dresser top left there by the nursery maid.

“A letter opener.”

“Who’s he going to stab? There’s nobody in there but that soft bear and lamb. They can’t have done anything to make him mad. Not murder mad, at least.”

Mycroft huffed loudly and stormed into the room, quickly falling into a familiar battle of trying to take something from his brother’s hand that his brother decided was not to be taken from his hand for any reason whatsoever. The fact that this item was rather stabby made the battle more fraught with peril than usual.

“Sherlock… no…. give me… how dare you!... no…. do not… I said do not!... I will not be blinded, you blighter!... oh.”

Sherlock had dropped the letter opener and was crawling towards Greg who was sitting on the floor, the soft toys in his hand, making them dance while he sang a nonsense song that orbited the theme of toy texture in comparison with crocodile skin.

“Here you go, Sherlock. You can have Mr. Lamb and I’ll have Mr. Bear and you can put some baby spit all over Mr. Lamb because they’ve got wool and wool’s good in the damp.”

Sherlock shouting ‘Lam Lam!’ and shoving its head into his mouth made Greg smile widely and Mycroft merely imagine a climactic film scene where he plunges a dagger into his chest to escape the tortures of his cursed existence. Given the letter opener likely could not penetrate bone and he really did want a single, solid stab to his heart to minimize his suffering, he tabled further contemplation of the fantasy. For now.

“He’s a rocket! I can see why you read to him. Smart little bugger. Aren’t you, Sherlock… smart and having a nice lamb dinner. Might be a touch dry, though. Does he have a bottle or something? Poor thing will probably be thirsty after eating all that… is it real wool or not? Either would make you thirsty, though, so I suppose it doesn’t matter.”

Greg kept singing his nonsense song and making the bear dance, using it to bop Sherlock’s fingers which reached out for it as if wanting to add another meat choice to his dining experience, while Mycroft rolled his eyes, but found the small baby cup of water and held it at the ready. Then snorted sharply at his servile holding things at the ready and traded the cup for the lamb in Sherlock’s mouth.

Which Sherlock did not like. In the slightest.

“Don’t have to worry about his lungs working, do you, Mycroft? He’s loud.”

“Yes.”

“I think my ears might start bleeding.”

“Quite.”

“Maybe give him his lamb back?”

“That may be wise.”

Mycroft hastily reswapped the cup for the lamb and both boys breathed a sigh of relief at the subsequent quiet, save for soft nomming sounds as Sherlock returned to savoring the flavor of a quality English toy.

“That was my idea, Mycroft. And I’m very, very sorry for it.”

“Sherlock has yet to learn the necessity of British fortitude.”

“But he _has_ learned that a good loud scream will get him what he wants.”

“Indeed.”

“He’s quiet now, though. Do you have your book? Now might be a good time to start reading. He can’t really hear you if he’s wailing.”

“I typically read to him while he is in his cot. He finds it relaxing.”

“Ummm… I wager we’ll have our ears burst if we try to put him in there right now. He’s already lost his sword and nearly his lamb. I’m not sure he’ll be happy with us if he loses his big escape victory.”

There was little in that with which to argue, so Mycroft chose not to raise on-principle points of order. Instead, he walked to the room’s floor-to-ceiling in-wall bookcase and withdrew a volume from one of the lower shelves.

“What is it?”

“A book.”

Greg rolled his eyes so hard his whole head made a circle around his neck.

“Which one? What’s it about?”

“It documents the history of ancient Egypt.”

“Oh. That’s actually interesting. Mum and Dad took me to a museum and we saw lots of Egypt things. I could have stayed there all day looking at them. They’ve got this amazing writing that…”

“Hieroglyphics.”

“That’s it! It’s all pictures and looks like a secret code. I wonder if the Nazis can read it? If not, that could be very useful for us.”

Weighing whether to lecture Greg on the Rosetta Stone and its contribution to historical and linguistic studies, Mycroft simply glared to satisfy a need to… glare… then blew out a haughty puff of breath.

“They are most capable of translating hieroglyphics.”

“Oh, that’s rotten luck, then. I suppose we have our own codes, though.”

“We do. Father keeps close watch on our ciphers and…”

It was rare Mycroft struggled for a word, but the war was introducing so many into use that it was a chore to stay current!

“… cr… cryptanalysts! They perform cryptography.”

“They study crypts? Well, that makes sense since those Egyptian chaps were put in pyramids and those are crypts of a sort. Probably why they know so much about hieroglyphics.”

Mycroft stared at Greg, who raised his hands in the time-honored ‘well, it’s true!’ gesture, then cleared his throat loudly to bring each and every bit of nonsense to a close.

“I will now begin reading.”

“Yes! I’ll stay here and make certain Sherlock doesn’t pull a gun from his nappy.”

“That is utterly… I was going to say ridiculous, but if anyone could conceal a firearm in his nappy, it likely would be Sherlock.”

“Might give his little bum a rash, though. They’ve got oil and stuff on them don’t they? Can’t be good for baby skin. I’ll pay even closer attention, because we don’t want a rashy baby with lungs like his on our hands.”

Greg turned back to Sherlock and made a face that gained him narrowed baby eyes but also happy kicky feet, so he scored it a success. Surveying the scene, Mycroft made a mental note, in red ink and a florid hand, that Gregory was still not his friend, but he did have some small measure of use. That was actually a vast improvement on his opinion and he commended himself for his open-mindedness.

“Very well, I shall begin.”

“Are there pictures?”

“Some, yes.”

“Make certain to turn the book so we can see them. I’ve seen mums doing that when reading to their littlest children. You read the words and turn the book so they can see the pictures.”

Sherlock let out a shriek that Greg took as confirmation of his theory and pointed happily at the baby to showcase his success.

“Very well, but the pictures are often small and not terribly colorful.”

“Oh. Well, do it anyway and, next time, we’ll find a book with more pictures. A picture book! We can buy one tomorrow when we go to the shops with Edwards.”

“We? When _we_ go to the shops?”

“Well, yeah, because we have to choose a really cracking book and that’s best done with both of us there. Of course, if you just want me to do it myself, then…”

“NO! No… Sherlock is _my_ brother and I must have a say in the choosing of his reading materials. Or, in this instance, materials being read to him.”

“Ok, then we’ll both go and find something he’ll like with lots of pictures.”

“I shall have final decision.”

“Ok, but can it be a book with pirates? Or knights and dragons? Or wild animals? Or monsters?”

Greg raised his arms and made a combination growly-screechy sound that started Sherlock giggling and bouncing his lamb up and down with his tiny hands.

“We… shall see.”

“We’re getting a monster book, Sherlock. Just watch. And maybe more. I’ll see you sorted, little baby. Loads of pictures of interesting stuff and exciting stories. Like now! Alright, Mycroft, start reading. And make it amazingly exciting!”

Sherlock’s happy squeal cut through Mycroft’s ears like a razor through soft cheese and the dual set of expectant eyes on him made him very self-conscious. However, he could not disparage Sherlock’s lack of British fortitude if he displayed none himself!

“Very well. We take up our reading with the Middle Kingdom.”

Greg shuffled a little to sit next to Sherlock so as to better be a fully attentive audience member. And, of course, to have faster nappy access in case the Middle Kingdom wasn’t to the baby’s taste and he unleashed his nappy arsenal on his unsuspecting brother. Babies were quick and you couldn’t be caught sleeping when they might have a canon or lance near at hand…


	5. Chapter 5

Hair. Combed. Teeth. Brushed. Face. Washed. Clothes… only a bit rumply because he had gone into the gardens to look for rabbits after breakfast and it was impossible not to get rumply looking for rabbits. It would have been nice if Mycroft had come with him, but… at least they’d had breakfast together. Him, Mycroft and Mrs. Holmes having breakfast together, with Sherlock there, too, which Mycroft said was giving him indefestion, which means a stomach ache, and he knew that for a fact because he’d asked.

It was actually nice to have the baby there, though, in his special chair, even though he had to be fed by the maid because he didn’t know how to use a spoon yet. Almost as nice as playing with him last night and listening to Mycroft read. He’d hoped that, maybe, when they were done, he and Mycroft could keep playing, but Mycroft went to his room for the night and that was that. It was ok, though, because Mycroft hadn’t been mean once and that was great! And he had his book of ships and the pictures were much better than for the Egypt book, so he’d had fun with that and eaten a very good supper in the kitchen and even got to watch some of the staff play cards until he got tired and went to bed. In the best bed in the world! There wasn’t a softer bed ever in the whole world and he was surprised he actually woke this morning because it was so soft. And it was the quietest he’d ever heard a night in his life! But if he kept sleeping, he wouldn’t have had breakfast and that would have been a terrible thing. Or found the rock that looked like a shoe. Or got to watch Charles fix one of the cars. Sleeping was good, but that was a LOT to miss and he’d get to sleep again tonight, but shoe rocks weren’t something you stumbled across every day.

Greg turned at the small knock on his doorframe and hopped over to Edwards who was standing in wait for him.

“Are you ready, Master Gregory?”

“I am! And… Mycroft is coming with us. Is that alright?”

Edwards kept a placid smile on his face while mentally doing the jitterbug in excitement.

“Most certainly. Is there something in particular he hopes to accomplish?”

“We want to find books for Sherlock. Not for him to read since he’s a baby, but books we can read _to_ him. With pictures. That’s very important. There have to be lots of colorful pictures. And maybe monsters. Probably monsters. And pirates.”

So the story about the two boys entertaining young Sherlock last night was true. He had no real reason to doubt the maid but… he had a great reason to believe she may have misinterpreted the scene she spied when returning to peek in on the baby.

“I wager we can find some very suitable titles. Shall we go?”

Greg stood straight, saluted and started marching, eventually stopping mid-step because he wasn’t sure which way he was actually supposed to go. Fortunately, Edwards did and helpfully pointed in a direction that took them down the stairs and past the library where Mycroft was busily cataloging the family’s selection of books with colorful and infant-enticing images. That his steeling of nerves before joining them was only discernible to Edwards’s practiced eye was scored in the highly-positive column of the social progress ledger.

Of course, the blush was taken a bit off the rose when Mycroft saw what they were taking to the shops.

“That is a horse cart.”

“Really? And here I thought it was the staff’s Austin.”

“I am not staff, Edwards. I refuse to ride in that rattletrap.”

“Then we shall make your purchases for you. Madame requires the other smallish vehicle and we have no need for any of the larger ones.”

Greg, however, was very happy to ride about in the small car and didn’t hesitate to explain why.

“You have to understand, Mycroft, petrol is rationed, so you have to be very cautious and frugal, which is MUCH easier with a small car like that one compared to something large and grand. Besides, it’s great! I wager it’s peppy, too.”

“If you admire… pep… Gregory, then why are you not rebuking Edwards for collecting you from the train in a much larger, petrol-quaffing, vehicle?”

Greg opened his mouth to answer, then turned his open-mouthed face to look up at Edwards. Then close that mouth with a snap.

“I… that’s actually a good question. Mr. Edwards, why did you collect me in a quaffer?”

Mycroft stood there glaring with arms folded across his chest, Greg next to him with his hands on his hips and Edwards found himself struggling with all his might not to start laughing at the ferocious sight.

“Because, before we were to meet you, Master Gregory, Charles delivered the car to the garage for some work he was hard-pressed to do himself. It would be difficult to have that done without the car itself actually being involved.”

“That makes sense. It was a fun car to ride in, but this one good for the war since it uses less petrol. And it’s peppy. Come on, Mycroft.”

Greg quickly climbed into the rear of the Austin and left the door open for Mycroft to join him. Something that took a very long moment because Mycroft’s sensibilities needed the time to overcome their tragic case of the vapors.

“I shall meet my death in this profound mechanical misjudgment, of that I am certain.”

“Maybe if a bomb falls on us. I didn’t think happened very often, which is why I was sent here from home.”

“I anticipate the vector of my demise rests more in the hands of the vehicle shaking apart and my life being taken by a wayward flying bolt.”

“You don’t have an accent, but you sound foreign most of the time. I only understood the word ‘bolt’ in all of that pliffity ploofity plaffity.”

“How dare you. I am properly English!”

“Are you a spy? Is that why you talk foreign?”

“I am not a spy!”

“That’s exactly what a real spy would say.”

“I disagree. Such a vehement denial would arouse suspicion. They would be far subtler in their method.”

“Maybe if you’d done a lot of spying you’d know to do that, but you can’t have done much, so you’d make mistakes. Spy.”

“You, Gregory, simply covet my robust vocabulary. It is to be expected. Geniuses such as myself are often the focus of envy from those with lesser minds.”

“I don’t want to talk like a foreign spy! I’m tough and know how to fight and the police would see that and say ‘What ho, there, Mr. Spy. Off to the dungeons with you!’ and there where would I be? In a dungeon! There’s no fun to be had in a dungeon, so no spy talk for me, thank you very much. Mr. Mycroft the Genius Spy.”

“If I was a traitorous spy, I would be a genius mastermind, that is true. However, I would never, absolutely never, betray my country.”

“France?”

“I am not foreign!”

“That’s exactly what a foreign spy would say.”

Mycroft’s muffled scream camouflaged Edwards’s snort of delight at the nonsense. Perhaps a small intervention was in order, however, before Mycroft leapt from the car to save his sanity.

“Having been with the family for the majority of Master Mycroft’s life, I feel I can say with confidence that he is not a foreign spy.”

“Ah ha! Thank you, Edwards.”

“That does not, however, explain why he sounds foreign.”

“WHAT!”

“Ah ha ha! Thank you, Mr. Edwards. I read a story once where fairies left fairy babies in place of human babies they stole. Maybe that’s you. Got any wings?”

“I am not a changeling! That is utterly preposterous.”

“It’d be fun, though. You could do fairy magic and talk to birds and find magic treasure and all sorts of things.”

“You are insane. There is no other explanation for this.”

“My brain! Oooohhh… does insanity hurt?”

“I hope it does.”

“That’s not nice.”

“Well spotted.”

“Pfffftttt.”

Edwards reminded himself to phone his mother because he was suddenly gaining a clear understanding of her declaring gin time after a close-quarters day with him and his brother. Which was most days, so he probably should send along several bottles of exceptionally good gin, also, as apology.

“I UNDERSTAND you are hopeful of finding books for young Master Sherlock. And Master Gregory is hopeful of finding books for himself as well as other entertainment options. I do have business to conduct for Mrs. Holmes, therefore…”

Why had his mind believed for an instant what he was about to propose was a good idea? Obviously, a rogue brain cell had sent forth a message without prior consultation with the remainder of his brethren who have now intercepted his correspondence and are responding with due alarm. However, once the foot, or brain, is set on the path…

“… might I deposit the two of you near the bookshop and arrange to meet with you in, say, an hour’s time? Perhaps at the bakery? They may have something to entice you today. I have it on very good authority that Mrs. Reed purchased a tidy quantity of our raspberries and she is very talented with putting them to delicious use.”

Greg’s bouncing up and down and cheering in his seat was a small indicator that he approved of this idea.

“Ok! And, I can help pick raspberries. Some of my mates’ sisters went off to be Land Girls and they do important work, so I can, too.”

“Peasant.”

“Peasant’s do important work, Mycroft. Who else is going to pick the crops so we have food?”

Mycroft threw up his hands but Edwards did not miss that he could have easily launched into a rather lengthy lecture on… anything remotely relevant to put young Greg in his supposed place, but did not. Progress? Perhaps. Perhaps not. Ultimately…

“Of course, Master Gregory, if you care to assist with the harvests, you are most welcome to do so. I shall notify our farms manager as to your availability.”

And ensure the child is placed where what he picks is easily placed into the mouth for a quick snack of something tasty and nutritious.

“Thanks! I’m gonna pick berries!”

Such as berries. Fortunately, they had ample land under fruit cultivation and an impressive assortment of berry species waiting for a pair of eager hands. Maybe if suitable nudges were applied, that might be _two_ pair of hands, though not even his hopeful optimism would append the term ‘eager’ to any subsequent hands beyond Greg’s.

“Very good, sir. Ah, we are drawing near our target, so let me take inventory. Do you have your shopping sacks?”

“What? Oh no! I don’t have any!”

“Shopping funds?”

“What? Oh no! I don’t have any!”

“Happily, I have your supply of both, your sacks in the boot and funds in my pocket. Here, this is a good place to leave the car… and let us see you provided for your excursion.”

Edwards dug into his pocket for a bit of money for books and a few inexpensive toys or games, which he handed back to Greg’s excited hands, keeping further monies aside for a wireless purchase which would certainly be somewhat extortionist in price due to availability _and_ the knowledge that the Holmes household could easily afford extortionist prices.

“This should do for now. Once we have reconnoitered, we shall seek your wireless radio. Now, let us get your sacks and you can be off. Master Mycroft, do you require any additional funds?”

“Was that said in jest?”

“I do prize my sense of humor.”

Edwards exited the car and quickly got the two sacks he’d put in the boot, quickly rethinking and handing both to Greg rather than giving each boy their own to carry. It was always prudent to pick one’s battles.

“I shall see you both in an hour, then. I wish you good hunting.”

Edwards tipped his hat to the small pair and moved off in the direction of the post office.

“Two sacks! That can hold loads of things. Do you gather scrap for the war? We did that in London and, not to brag, but I can carry a lot of paper and stuff. My mates and me were the best in our school for that. Ooh, and shrapnel, too. It’s loads of fun to hunt for that and sometimes you even find it nice and warm.”

Taking a moment to show his scrap-and-shrapnel-collecting muscles to Mycroft, which required Greg walking in a circle to stay in front of Mycroft who kept trying to turn away in revulsion, it was then a loud roar and shaking of his sacks to announce that Greg Lestrade, the master salvager, was at hand and no bit of stray metal was safe from his clutches.

“Are you finished.”

“I suppose.”

“There. Begin walking.”

Greg squinted at Mycroft’s pointing finger and whirled to begin marching in the indicated direction, whistling a shrill tune that was as appropriately off-key and meandering as was critical for the very best meant-to-annoy whistling endeavors.

“Ooh, there!”

Greg stopped whistling and darted forward towards the tidy shopfront boasting, among others, the word ‘Games’ in the front window.

“Ugh… I miss London and proper amusement purveyors.” 

“Huh?”

“Toy shops and the like.”

“Oh! I… you’re from London?”

“We divide our time between our London home and this one. Now… I doubt we shall return to London for a very long time.”

“I didn’t know that. Is… is your house alright? The one in London, I mean.”

“It has suffered some damage, however, Father is vigilant about seeing it repaired since… it is important to maintain a façade of normalcy to inspire hope.”

“That’s true. Mum makes certain I’m tidy when we go about, even though it’s not precisely tidy around us much of the time. Even when we go to the air raid shelter! Takes out a comb as soon as we’re safe and sees my hair doesn’t look… well, I don’t know if you’ve noticed but my hair can get a bit wild.”

Mycroft simply huffed out a breath and walked into the shop which, as expected was doing its utmost to maintain its façade of normalcy despite a somewhat altered level and quality of stock compared to its pre-war days.

“Look, Mycroft!”

Greg ran forward and began looking through the assorted airplanes, board games, jump ropes and other items, quickly grabbing a small set of soldiers with one hand and a pack of cards with the other.

“They even have model planes! The same sort we have in London. They’re not exactly like the ones I used to build, but they’re still fun and look the best! I wager I can buy one with all the money Edwards gave me. And some new marbles! I left mine in London because, well, I had a very nice collection and didn’t want to lose them or something. I’m good, really good, and won lots of brilliant ones from the lads at school. Do you like to play marbles?”

“No.”

“Jump rope? It’s for girls, I know, but it’s fun, too.”

“No.”

“No to fun or no to it’s for girls or no you don’t jump rope?”

“Consider it an encompassing no.”

“I would, but I’m not sure what that means so, moving on! Cards? Model airplanes? Soldiers? Board games? They’ve got some that seem a lot of fun.”

Mycroft’s disdain for the crude, to him, shop offerings was high, but he had no wish to enter into an argument over something as pointless as paperboard games and toys.

“It is your money; choose what you like.”

“But I’d want things you could play with me.”

“Consider that a minor factor in your decisions. Besides, we must see if the bookshop has suitable titles for Sherlock and will certainly take the bulk of our time.”

“Can I help you boys?”

The gentle voice had both Greg and Mycroft turning, Greg smiling widely at the older man who had come to offer assistance.

“Hi! I’m Greg. I just came from London. This is Mycroft. I have money.”

Greg proudly held out his coins while Mycroft rolled his eyes in exasperation.

“That you do. Well, I’m certain we can see you with something you’ll enjoy for your riches. And… yes, it should be on now… there’s an exchange doing on the green. There’s usually toys and games there and people are as happy to take money as something in trade. See what suits you here, what say, and then see if there’s something extra you might add there for a good price.”

“What ho, Mycroft! An adventure! A pirate adventure with booty!”

Waving his imaginary sword in the air, Greg grinned brightly and brightened even further hearing Mycroft’s agonized groan.

“That’s the spirit, lad! Always treasure to be found when you’re browsing about what others consider rubbish. Used to loved mucking about the scrapheap when I was your age. Brought home treasure every day, not that my mum would describe it that way. Let’s see what I have that interests you then send you on your way to bigger and better things.”

“Do they have books?”

“Usually, they do. If not, there’s a bookshop next street over and they’ve got second-hand on offer, too.”

“Books for babies? With colorful pictures?”

“Oh, that sort of book. I’d say you’ll have no trouble finding a tidy number with very colorful pictures.”

“What ho, Mycroft! Books ahoy!”

The shopkeeper searched his mind and was very happy to remember that, yes, he had a few piratical items knocking about that could be had on the cheap. And, at least one of this youthful pair would give them a very good home…

__________

“You look ridiculous.”

“Arrrggghhh!”

“That merely enhanced the ridiculousness.”

Greg tapped his new eyepatch, unaware it began life in the shopkeeper’s first aid kit, and did what he felt certain was an authentic pirate jig in the middle of the pavement.

“I wish England had parrots. I’d have one ride on my shoulder and teach it to speak like you see in the films. Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight!”

Greg’s parrot voice rivaled his eyepatch as sources of acid for Mycroft’s stomach.

“There. It is the bookshop. Your antics will now cease.”

“Of course they will! You can’t play silly buggers in a shop. That’s what the pavement is for! And the parks and alleys and… except for school or church, fairly much everywhere else in the world actually. Oh! And the bottom of the ocean.”

Mycroft’s arm shot up and a finger extended to point at the bookshop, both arm and finger staying rigid as an iron bar until Greg rolled his eyes and began his pirate jig again, but adding in some forward motion so he actually made it to the shop’s door in less than a fortnight.

And, Mycroft had grudgingly to admit, Greg was on his best behavior while in the bookshop, a few excited jigs when he found something particularly exciting notwithstanding. Mycroft further grudgingly had to admit that Greg had a useful eye for books that might offer Sherlock an intelligent and visually-stimulating reading/listening experience. Some choices were purely inane in topic, but had respectable rhyming schemes for such juvenile fare and there was a degree of literary merit to that. Others had a more acceptable level of content, but were well-supplied with large, colorful drawings that… Mycroft was growing very weary of grudging admissions… he grudgingly had to admit would appeal to his baby brother. And, though Gregory’s choices for his own reading material were unfailingly puerile, at least the interloper _did_ read. That was a point, a grudging point, in his favor…

“AAAAAAHHHHH!!! Look at all of this! Sherlock is going to be so happy when you read to him tonight. He’ll be babbling and cooing and kicking his little feet and laughing. I think we definitely deserve whatever berry magic we can have today. And we still have time to explore the second-hand exchange. This is the best day possible!”

“If you’ve got that nob’s money, all days are good days.”

Greg and Mycroft whirled to see a group of boys standing behind them, looking as if they were deciding if they should kick the pair in the arse or do something a bit more drastic to send them on their way. Greg, however, wasn’t pleased with his companion being insulted, even if the insult was actually sort of true, at least to an extent.

“That’s not nice!”

As the boys laughed, the taller one took a step forward and spat on the pavement near Greg’s feet.

“Sod off, you. Who are you, anyway? And why are you with this snooty tosser?”

“I’m Greg and I live with the Holmes’s until they stop bombing London.”

“One of those evacuees… we don’t need you lot on our patch. It’s bad enough we’ve got _him_ prancing about, thumbing his nose at the rest of us.”

Greg hated to add to their growing collection of grudging admissions, but Mycroft _did_ prance a bit and was fairly good at nose thumbing, but that wasn’t the point. He knew this type. Knew and didn’t like them. They were rude and bullies, neither of which sat well with him in the slightest.

“Mycroft has a lot of money but that doesn’t make him a bad person. Unlike you.”

“What’d you say?”

“I said you’re a bad person. Not because you don’t have money, but because you talk like one. Apologize and maybe I’ll change my mind.”

“I don’t care what you think.”

“Then go away and take that pack with you. We’ve got things to do.”

Greg had taken his own step forward because what you couldn’t do with bullies is show them you were afraid of them. Even if you were a little bit since they were older, bigger and in greater quantity than you.

“We’re not going anywhere. This is our street and you and the fat toff aren’t welcome on it.”

Hey! Don’t say mean things about Mycroft!”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“You don’t want to find out.”

“Maybe I do.”

Not even Mycroft’s powers of observation, advanced as they were, saw the taller boy’s fist start towards Greg, but Greg still dodged it and landed one of his own before he was leapt on to become part of a rolling, flailing, angry mass that had punches and kicks flying but, in true bully form, the other boys stayed out of the melee since Greg didn’t seem to be faring as bad as they’d anticipated for a boy his age and size. Both of which were actually working to Greg’s advantage since this wasn’t his first fight and the older boy seemed to believe that his larger size was the only thing he needed to win. Greg, however, was more limber, smarter and took a punch or kick better than the older boy would have predicted, so stayed in the fight long enough to finally land a shockingly hard blow directly to the older boy’s nose, causing him to scream and race to get his hands up to protect his injured nose from further abuse and catch the blood that was beginning to stream down his face.

“Th… there! What ho, you scurvy dog! That’ll teach you to say mean things a… about Mycroft.”

Greg staggered to his feet and used his foot to shove his opponent backwards, where he moaned and waved off his friends who were trying to pry his hands away from his face to see if his nose was as flat as a boxer’s.

“Gregory! We… we should make haste.”

“Yeah, that’s smart.”

Not so much haste as to seem they were running away, of course, more the sort of haste where one has remembered an important appointment for which one is running a touch late. At least, until they turned a corner, when the running became literal to put some distance between them and their foes.

“Are you alright, Gregory?”

“Ummm… mostly.”

Meaning everything was starting to hurt and he felt as if he’d… well, as if he’d just been in a fight!

“Your eye…”

“Is it gone?”

“No, but it seems to be turning blue.”

“A blackie for me, then. You… good. You saved our booty!”

Only then Mycroft noticed he’d scooped up their sacks at some point and rescued their books and toys.

“I suppose so. But… Gregory… you should not have… you did not need to…”

“I did. It’s wrong to be mean to people. Just wrong. It’s wrong to be rude and a bully and mean and make people feel bad. Him and his mates won’t be so fast to say something mean to you again because they know they’ll get the what for from me.”

Greg nodded firmly, then regretted it because it made his head hurt. And his neck hurt. And his shoulder hurt. And his elbow for some reason that probably had to do with science.

Mycroft’s features twisted slightly and he found he could only nod. Then with a supreme surge of effort, he got out two words.

“Thank you.”

“And for what are you thanking Master Gregory?”

Again, both boys found themselves whirling, this time to find Edwards leaning against the side of a building and giving them something best described as a smirk while Greg hastily repositioned his eyepatch which had been dangling from one ear to cover his growing-black eye.

“I… that is we…”

“I fell! There was… a dog. A very small dog and it ran in front of us and Mycroft was going to trip over it, but I gave him a nudge so he didn’t but I fell over it anyway.”

“Oh, is that it? And you fell on your face?”

“Yeah.”

“And your knuckles?”

“I suppose.”

“And did a fair bit of rumpling of your clothes?”

“I fell hard. And… and rolled! Rolled a little since… see? It slants downhill right there and I rolled like a log.”

Mycroft’s eager nodding was solid evidence that he was going to back Greg’s ludicrous lie and Edwards ran through the possibilities of why that would be the case. Only one stood tall after his analysis and he wondered if he’d ever learn the full story of why Mycroft had his honor defended by his newest acquaintance. But dear god that eye had to smart.

“I see. Rolling can do one’s attire a mischief, I do admit. Might I propose a cool drink and moment to sit to help refresh yourselves after your terrible canine catastrophe?”

“And… our raspberries?”

“Most certainly.”

Greg cut eyes to Mycroft, who nodded and received a nod back in return, something Edwards liked to believe was the solemn sealing of a pact. The solemn sealing of pacts between children could be good or ill, but he strongly suspected this was a very good thing, indeed.

“Then let us be off. Do brush your trousers a bit, Master Gregory. One must not appear a ragamuffin when one is indulging in summer fruits.”

“Right! Tidiness is important. And I’ll… I don’t have my comb but I can use my fingers so my hair doesn’t frighten old people like my dad says. Ok… I can take those now, Mycroft. Thanks for holding them while I rolled like a log.”

“I can carry them. At least for awhile.”

Edwards kept his shock off his face as he shoulder-shoved himself off the building and gave said shoulder a quick brushing to support Greg’s tidiness initiative. Now, it would be getting the boys something to reward whatever had happened today, allow Greg a chance to rest, then see them home where Greg’s injuries might find some soothing ice and a pain tablet.

Oh, and could not forget the boy’s wireless. That should be a brief interruption, however. Mr. Barder had in his stock the perfect model for a child who admired the sleek and small. And, perhaps while Master Gregory was having his battle wounds tended and… fingers crossed… enjoying a sharing of books, toys or a radio program with Master Mycroft… this sadly overworked assistant might nip out to one of their dairy farm tenants and obtain a bit of very fresh milk and cream that the bloody Milk Marketing Board hadn’t gotten its hands on yet. It was an excellent day for a bite or two of ice cream and Mrs. Turner had a surprisingly good recipe for a honey-based version that provided a tasty treat even with the rather draconian sugar ration. Not that the Holmes’s had to pay particular attention to that rationing, what with having rather a large influence on the British Sugar Corporation and a hefty stake in the country’s sugar beet industry, but it paid to demonstrate one’s patriotism whenever possible…


	6. Chapter 6

“Like this?”

“DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAWWWW!”

Greg fell over laughing at Sherlock’s reaction to the large picture of the smiling dog in the book Mycroft was dutifully holding so the picture could be seen by the baby sitting on the floor of the nursery.

“It seems so. Ahem… The dog says… woof. Woof woof woof, says the dog to his friend the cow. Cow? That is a rather odd choice of friend for a dog.”

“CAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAWWWWWWWWWWW!”

Sherlock, apparently, was as approving of cows as he was of dogs.

“It’s a nice one, isn’t it, Sherlock? Make the cow sound for him, Mycroft. He’ll like that.”

“I refuse.”

“You did the dog noise. Sort of. And, if a dog can be a cow friend, the least you can do is make a cow noise.”

“There is not a speck of rational thought in that entire sentence.”

“Make the cow noise.”

“Moo.”

“That’s horrible. You do it like this MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

Sherlock squealed loudly and waved his lamb before falling back into the hand Greg shot out to prevent any further backwardsing.

“May I continue?”

“Yeah. You’re doing great! Except for being afraid of cows, but I’m not so I’ll do all the mooing. What’s next? This is exciting, isn’t it, Sherlock?”

Sherlock shook his lamb emphatically and made a cooing sound that sufficiently resembled a moo that Mycroft found his lips lifting, rather traitorously in his opinion, into a smile.

“Hurray for Sherlock! He’s a cow.”

Mrs. Hudson stifled a laugh and turned eyes towards Mrs. Holmes who was as guilty of spying on the boys as was she.

“I still fail to comprehend the canine-bovine relationship. They do not even speak the same language. Are they routinely found larking about together?”

“I don’t know. You live in the country, that’s more your area.”

“Cows are most certainly not my area.”

“We should investigate. And ride cows.”

“One does not ride cows.”

“Why not?”

Mycroft made to answer but, though knew with absolute certainty he was correct, he could dredge up no evidence from even the farthest recesses of his mind.

“One… simply does not.”

“Meaning you don’t know. We’ve got a case! Just like those detective chaps in the films. We’ll find some cows and then it’s ‘What ho, Mr. Cow! Can we ride you and do you have any dog friends for us to pet?”

Sherlock kicked his feet in a frantic tattoo that Greg took as wholehearted endorsement of his plan.

“ _May_ I continue?”

“How else are you going to finish the book?”

Sherlock slammed his beloved lamb on the floor to emphasize the unquestionable logic of Greg’s point.

“The cow says… moo. Moo, moo, moo says the cow to his friend the bird. Bird?”

“Show the picture!”

Mycroft turned the book so the large blue bird could entertain his audience.

“This book is naught but nonsense.”

The collision between the soft lamb and Mycroft’s nose was utterly uncalled for, in Mycroft’s opinion, though he did credit his brother’s aim.

“Sherlock doesn’t think so. He thinks it’s great! So do I. Now, do a bird sound.”

“I am not a stage performer!”

“There was this chap came to our school who did bird calls. He knew lots! They sounded real, too.”

“Then perhaps he should be reading the book.”

“He’s not here, now is he? Birds go cheep cheep cheep cheep cheep. Except for geese who go HONK and chase you if they’ve a mind to. Which they always seem to when I’m there. Even when I don’t have any food for them!”

“Why am I not surprised in the slightest?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you’re a goose expert. Make the goose sound so we know for certain.”

As Mycroft discussed, in enough detail to claim a doctorate in the qualifications and characteristics of geese experts which do not in any manner apply to him, the women quietly stepped away from the nursery and, when they were out of earshot, finally started laughing.

“My son is positively befuddled by his new companion and it is a marvelous thing, simply marvelous. How is Greg, though, Mrs. Hudson, after today’s altercation? Edwards did not wish to make the situation appear overly upsetting, however, Mrs. Turner told a slightly different tale.”

“Some respectable scrapes and bruises. His eye got a proper knock, but the builder and his sons were here to work on that dodgy section of roof and they were very impressed by it, which made Greg puff like a partridge with pride. Charles got a few snaps with his Leica, too, so I suspect no matter how much it might hurt, the lad’s going to wear it as a badge of honor.”

“Oh dear, I hope Mycroft was not apoplectic at the fuss.”

“He only seemed apoplectic when Greg made him pose and with Greg’s arm around him, just like a pair of old chums.”

“Charles will see me with an enlarged version of that photograph if he values his continued employment.”

“I’ll make sure he’s aware. He got a dispatch of chemicals today, so you know he’ll be in his darkroom tomorrow when you don’t have a need for him.”

“Excellent. I wonder if young Gregory would like to learn photography? Mycroft certainly showed no interest when Charles offered to instruct him, but Gregory seems one to grab what life experiences he can, so we should provide what we can of them.”

“Another thing I’ll see Charles knows so he can ask. Greg’s a bit young for a lot of the falderol, but he could certainly take some snaps and help that useless driver develop them. And maybe…

Mrs. Hudson turned a wistful eye back towards the nursery making her meaning perfectly clear. Getting Mycroft to try new things was an eternal struggle, but they now had a new ally in the fight.

“We can always hope.”

“It’s free, so we can have lots.”

“True. Even though it seems in short supply, at times, hope is always something one can afford if one is willing.”

“Unlike bananas.”

“I’d commit murder for a banana today.”

“Mrs. Turner does a nice banana ice with that flavoring in a bottle.”

“How nice?”

“Better than the parsnip-y ‘mock bananas’ recipe that she tried last week but not quite as good the banana custard she uses for her tarts.”

“That’s well within my range of acceptability for impromptu indulgences.”

“And now you’ll be asking for tarts for tomorrow’s afternoon tea, won’t you?”

“What’s the use of having cows, chickens and banana in a bottle if one cannot have custard tarts when one desires them?”

“Should I tell you she’s got a lovely bit of desiccated coconut, which goes very well in tasty tarts?”

“I’ll milk those damn cows myself.”

“And I’ll gather the eggs.”

__________

Silly Mummy… believing she could enjoy a banana ice today and then deny him one after dinner for reasons of general heath. Well, he had set her very straight on the subject and made sure to have a witness present so his argument could be referenced for further events of abject hypocrisy without any maternal after-the-fact flaws of memory.

Now, where was Gregory? The pest had insisted… harangued, actually… until he agreed to play one of the board games and now he was nowhere to be found! Dashed poor manners, all things considered. Not in his bedroom, or the library, or the nursery, or the kitchen or the conservatory… were rabbits nocturnal? If they were, Gregory very well might be chasing them. Or a bat if one happened to catch his eye.

Mycroft left the house through a door that led into one of the smaller gardens and began walking towards what he felt was the most rabbit-friendly area of the grounds but stopped short she he caught sight of someone sitting on one of the small benches set near a stand of hedges.

“Gregory?”

“What? Oh, hi Mycroft!”

“Why are you out here in the dark?”

Greg’s pointing upwards was not terribly illuminating so Mycroft stalked forward to investigate further.

“Are you proposing the sky as your reason?”

“I… sort of? It’s dark.”

“That is the most obvious statement a person could hope to make.”

“No! I mean, yes, but it’s dark naturally. London isn’t. Unless it’s a blackout, it’s never this dark, really. Even then I don’t think it’s this dark.”

“Ah, yes. There is less ambient light here. As well as cleaner air.”

“You can see all the stars. So many of them! Lots and lots and lots.”

“True. I am making a study of the night sky, actually. Father has promised me a telescope so I can be more effective at examining the various heavenly bodies.”

“Really? That’s amazing! Will you be able to see the Martians?”

“Martians are fictional.”

“Are you sure?”

“Very.”

“Oh. Well, that’s disappointing. I was hoping that, one day, I’d run across one of their ships that landed by accident or crashed and then it’d be ‘What ho, Mr. Martian! Can I have a ride in your spaceship?’ And then I’d get to fly about and go to Mars and it’d be a brilliant thing.”

“You cannot _possibly_ believe that would happen.”

Greg grinned and swung his feet back and forth while cutting impish eyes at Mycroft’s glowering face.

“Well… maybe not entirely, but it’s fun to think about. You have to admit that, Mycroft. It’s simply a fact.”

“Your imagination is positively feverish.”

“Thank you! Later, we can draw Martians and spaceships. Or make puppets! We made puppets in school and they’re easy to do with almost anything. Ok, that’s tomorrow sorted. We can make Sherlock a Martian hat to wear so he won’t feel left out of the fun. And give him a show with our puppets.”

Mycroft felt, as he often did with Greg, like he was riding a Catherine wheel – spinning about colorfully while going nowhere whatsoever.

“Yes, well… tomorrow is another day, to be certain.”

“Yep. And it’ll be dark tomorrow night, too. And quiet. That’s… a good thing.”

There was a slight shift in Greg’s tone that Mycroft’s ears caught despite trying to actively filter the conversation to save their owner’s sanity.

“Is it?”

“I don’t like loud noises. Bombs are loud. People yelling, shouting and screaming are loud. Air raid sirens are loud. Ambulances are loud. It’s… I don’t like it, that’s all.”

The fact Greg, himself, was one of the loudest things Mycroft knew didn’t diminish the theme the young Holmes recognized in Greg’s words.

“Father brought us to the country before the bombing began, so I have little point of reference for any of that.”

“Really? That’s a bit of luck. It’s… it’s always loud. And scary.”

Greg didn’t like admitting that last part, but it was true and the truth was important. His mum and dad both said so, so it _had_ to be true. Just like him being scared when it was loud from bombs and… other things.

“I do not doubt that. I suppose… I suppose it was a good thing Father relocated us when he did so we did not have to endure such a thing. Do you… did you know anyone killed in the bombing?”

“Yeah. Not any of my mates but Robbie’s brother died and two people mum knew. One didn’t die right away, but they got an infection from being cut with something and died later. You?”

“No. Not from the bombing or such, that is. My grandfather died not long before Sherlock was born, but it was his heart. It gave out, you see.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. It doesn’t matter how, really; it’s always sad when someone dies. There’s just a lot more of it now, it seems.”

“That is true. And when you include the military…”

Seeing Greg’s face twist slightly as he fought down the sudden kick of reality to his midsection, Mycroft felt the very uncharacteristic sensation of genuine regret for his words.

“I… I apologize, Gregory. I had forgotten your father is one of our soldiers.”

“Th… thanks. I know it’s dangerous… real danger, not like in an adventure story, which is the fun sort of danger. Mum said I can’t just think and think and think about it, though, and make my brain hurt with worry. Dad is smart and he’s fit, too. He’s going to fight Nazis and help us win and come home so we can be a family and that’s that.”

Greg gave a single no-nonsense nod to punctuate his conviction but his eyes told a slightly different story. One Mycroft chose not to pursue because he had no idea how to do so and not make the situation worse. Feelings were very much not his usual area of expertise. They were so difficult to comprehend! His own were problematic enough for a lifetime, let alone understanding those of others. However, he should say something because it was his mistake that sent them along this path.

“There is no reason to suppose otherwise, so… heed your mother’s advice. It appears sound.”

“Thanks! Mum’s smart, that’s for certain. Your mum is, too.”

The words had worked! At the very least, the topic of conversation had shifted. And Gregory did not look nearly as distraught.

“Without question. Father does not hesitate to claim she is his intellectual equal and he says that about no others. Actually, he says she is his equal in all things save for those where she is much, much better.”

“That sounds like loooooooooooove, to me.”

“Possibly. I have not conducted any study to know if it actually the case. It would require some form of competition and I have little confidence they would agree to participate.”

“Old people don’t like that sort of thing, I’ve noticed. Unless it’s sports. Or a game, which is a sort of competition, if you think about it.”

Which reminded Mycroft about his original mission.

“You stated earlier you wished to play a game. Is that still the case?”

“Tonight? Yes! One of those I bought earlier?”

“Unless there is another.”

“We could have a race.”

“We will play one of the games you purchased earlier.”

“Ok. Then we can draw spaceships and Martians.”

“I have a map I wished to examine later tonight.”

“Oh. Can you map examine while I draw? Spaceships and Martians?”

“Shall you do that quietly?”

“Uhhhhhh… I can try. I can truly try as hard as I possibly can.”

Meaning no.

“I shall hold you to that.”

“Hurray! What map are you going to look at?

“Ancient Mesopotamia. We have a very rare copy that is most detailed.”

“Ummmmm…”

“The Fertile Crescent?”

“Uhhhhhhh…..”

“Do you learn anything at your school?”

“Puppet making. Did you already forget?”

“I did, thankfully.”

“That’s alright. I forget things sometimes, too. I know! I’ll make a special memory puppet for you that can remind you when you forget something.”

“It is going to look like a Martian, isn’t it?”

“Martians have to remember things just like we do, so it’s an especially special puppet.”

“Wonderful.”

“Thanks! I think so, too.”


	7. Chapter 7

_Dear Mum,_

_Its me, Greg, writing a leter which Ive not done before to send to you, so its very exciting and fun and I had a good brekfast so I have the mussle to write all of this when I han’t had a pencil in my hand for a bit. Fingers have mussles and I know because I asked my friend Mycroft, which I spelled right because I asked that to, so thats good._

_Mycroft lives here with his brother Sherlock (spelled right!) who is a baby and very smart. So is Mycroft who knows many things. Like what is Mesopotatia which I learned about last night when drawing spaceships. We went to the shops and got toys and books and I have to tell the truth and say I got into a fight with some boys who wern’t nice and said mean things. I have a black eye and I’m not only telling the truth because Mycrofts mum made Charles given me a copy of the photo he took of me and Mycroft and my black eye and said to send it to you because mums like snap’s even if you have a black eye so here it is and Edwrds will mail it right proper so it doesnt get bent or torn or a dog._

_Since you dont know, Charles drive’s the cars here and fixes them to. And he has a real camerra and makes his own photos and hes going to teach me how to do that which is super. Mrs. Hudson does the tidying and things and says hes a rog which I didn’t know so I asked and that’s like a scamp but better looking. Mrs. Hudson didnt say that last bit Charles did and laughed so that was good because you should be happy when people say nice things. I heard one of the maid’s say Edwards is rakeish which is odd because he doesnt look like a rake and Dad has loads so I know. I will ask him about it and see if he laughs to. He is Mrs. Holmes helper and does errands and has a typeriter and is very busy and helpful. He took us to the shops and we got toys and book’s and razberry cake which I get to pick soon and that’s tops._

_Mrs. Turner cooks and is very good at it. I eat it all and its not even hard! She is good at cards and makes things for when they play and I got to watch which was fun. Loads of things are fun. I saw rabbits and played with the baby and played with Mycroft though it’s a difrent sort of playing but still fun. And theres stars! I like them a lot and can see them every night. Oh! What ho Mum I have a wirless! Its in my room which is the best and I can listen to what I want and I have a desk and toys and books so my room is great. With a wirless._

_And I have lot’s of fun with Mycroft. He was mean at first but isnt so much now. He is very smart and knows things and talks foreign but isnt a spy. We have advnturs and read to the baby and watch stars and draw and lots of things like maybe rabbits. Today we are going to see cows. Real ones! Mycroft says we cant ride them but I’m not sure and will ask because you dont know until you ask so I will. And maybe sheep but chickens are to small so I dont need to ask for that. I will pet them thogh because who doesnt like that besides bee’s? I know that fact and am very sure so I am an exspurt on it._

_After riding cows I’m going to teach Mycroft marbles. Not the baby because he might eat one! Then we may make pupets and do a show and Sherlock can watch that and ware a hat. I had toast for brekfast and jam and fruit and an egg which came right from the chicken and it was all good which I hope for you to and lunch. I miss you mum and love you and hope you are safe and having fun like me._

_Greg (youre son)_

__________

_ Dear Father, _

_ I am writing to you today because Gregory insisted that I join him in the exercise. Gregory, as you know, is our new resident that you foisted upon the household and with whom I must now contend daily. He is obviously a commoner in both experience and sensibilities, however, all is not unsatisfactory. Though he is loud, nonsensical and infected with a bizarre adoration of physical exertion and petting things, Gregory is not entirely unintelligent and has a rather surprising affinity for babies, in this case, Sherlock, who he can entertain successfully, something you know is a rare thing. _

_ I have also found Gregory to be possessed of a sense of honor and a willingness to act upon it which he has been called to do and, in addition, what some would term a ‘good heart.’ The latter seems of limited benefit for those of our social class, but I have no doubt it serves him well with those he would be expected to encounter in his typical daily life. And, I must disclose, he has turned those traits to my benefit when the village ruffians behaved uncharitably, as they are wont to do when I am present. I was most appreciative of his efforts in this regard and duly informed him of this, as is right and proper. _

_ I have, also, been doing my duty to entertain our guest, escorting Gregory to the shops, sharing time in the library, engaging in one of the rudimentary games we have acquired and stargazing. Today, after a viewing of cows, we shall engage in a contest of marbles, which my head for strategy and excellent hand-eye coordination will surely make me victorious. Though, I shall concede that Gregory’s experience with the game and general tendency towards things physical could provide him an advantage. It will be an interesting experiment, regardless. For some reason, Gregory also desires to engage in handicrafts but I see no pressing reason to refuse as it shall, at the very least, increase our repertoire of entertainments for Sherlock who is developing at an acceptable rate and in need of various forms of stimulation to fully grow his abilities as a Holmes. How puppets factors into this development, I am not entirely certain, however I suspect his mental creativity shall be enhanced and that is always something for which to strive. _

_ Furthermore, I have continued to fulfill my role as the eldest son and studied the household accounts to ensure our affairs are efficiently managed and have kept a watchful eye on Mummy. She is happy, Father, inasmuch as she can be, but I do my utmost to see that Sherlock is kept content so as to limit her worry on that score and encourage her to engage in those activities she enjoys and get the proper rest necessary for one of her age and level of activity. I also am vigilant towards the welfare of the staff and that they are conducting their duties appropriately. I am hopeful that my efforts meet with your approval and that you are reassured that your absence, while sorely felt, has not left the household in a dire situation. If there is more you feel necessary, notify me and I shall take steps to see it done. _

_ I hope you are well, Father, and that your work is progressing as expected. Might you be coming home soon to visit? I know that Mummy would welcome that and London is not so far that a short visit is out of the question to see Mummy happy, which is something I know you deem, very rightly, an important thing. And you may see how Sherlock has grown, as well as meeting Gregory and, perhaps, take some relaxation which is surely in short supply in London. If such is not feasible at this time, perhaps I might visit London, instead, to discuss more fully the goings on here and take some small measure of work from you to lessen your burdens and allow you a bit of rest. Normally, I would not leave my post, but a short visit would not be consequential and Gregory seems most capable of tending to Sherlock in my brief absence. _

_ I look very forward to learning your thoughts on my latter points and am very willing to discuss the matter over the telephone. Until then, I hope you are well and not working past the point of peak efficiency. I will gladly script a work schedule for you to ensure you are not impairing your usefulness once I speak with you again and learn more of your daily duties. I have enclosed a photograph Mummy finds amusing and insisted I make part of this correspondence. It is, as you will see, of Gregory and me after our small altercation in the village. Gregory emerged victorious, which is why he is smiling despite his rather disheveled condition. _

_ Farewell, Father and know I shall inform you immediately of any situations requiring your attention though you might wish to make your own inquiries soon through the post or via telephone so you are not concerned unduly about how we are faring. The post and telephone service are still operating with appropriate effectiveness, so do not fear that an attempt to contact me will be met with failure. _

_ Mycroft _


	8. Chapter 8

“Here?”

“Further.”

“Here?”

“Further.”

“Here?”

“Further.”

“Here? And don’t say further, because I’ll be in the ocean or something.”

Mycroft viewed the expanse of ground between him and Greg and found it still insufficient for his olfactory preference.

“That would be tremendously beneficial as the salt water might provide some measure of both cleansing and deodorizing.”

“There’s something wrong with your nose. I’m not that stinky!”

“You rode a cow.”

“And a sheep. I’m not sure which was easier. The sheep was smaller but it… I don’t think it was terribly happy with me having a ride. It was softer, though, which was helpful when it started running.”

“Whenceupon you fell off of it into something not precisely described as mud.”

“There was mud in it. And probably other things, but the farmer gave me a spray with a hose, so that’s sorted.”

“Not even individuals who build their huts with sticks and the aforementioned mud would deem that correctly described as sorted.”

“Beavers?”

Mycroft threw up his hands, then cursed the action as it wafted air from Greg’s direction towards him.

“We shall have to burn the interior of our vehicle after it delivers us at home.”

“Why don’t we just walk? We walked from the farmhouse to the barns and such. It’s only a little further to your house.”

“It is certainly over a mile. That does not qualify as a little further.”

“That’s all? I thought it was further, but if that’s the case then we can easily walk. I walk more than that every day. More than once!”

“Untrue.”

“It is! We walk all over. And run. And skip. Hop, too. Roll, sometimes. Or crawl. Inch along like a worm. All sorts of things, really.”

“I am reconsidering your designation as human.”

“Well, I don’t know that from an apple, but it’s fun. You find all sorts of things when you walk. Secret places, treasure, cats… you never know. You might find someone fixing a bicycle and get to watch!”

“Why would you even consider doing that?”

“It’s fun! And I learned how to fix a bicycle. I can get a chain right back on if it falls off and that’s helpful for when I ever have my own bicycle.”

“Given you are a smelly peasant, that is likely the most advanced form of transport you shall own, so I suppose there is value in the knowledge.”

“Thanks! Do you have one?”

“No.”

“Can we find one for hire?”

“Why?”

“So we can ride it! We could take turns or we could both ride together. My mates and me do that a lot since I’ve got more mates than there are bicycles, so we put two or three on one and off we go. I’m a bit of an expert at it, actually, so I’ll do the steering and pedaling and the like and you can just hold on and talk foreign like you like to do when we see something exciting.”

There was no configuration of human and machine concocted by Mycroft’s mind that made this a remotely feasible situation even if he fell victim to a brain parasite that distorted his thoughts into perceiving this as an idea worth pursuing.

“I refuse beforehand.”

“Huh?”

“I am not a circus performer.”

“Ok but what’s that to do with having a ride on a bicycle? Though you being in the circus would be brilliant. A lion tamer! I’d have a ticket for that and quick, too.”

“I would not be a lion tamer. If I was reduced to that lifestyle, I would surely be the ringmaster.”

“But they don’t do anything, really. Just wave their hat about and ‘What ho! You lot watch the clowns!’ You have to be something like walk a tightrope or juggle or do magic tricks.”

It took Greg a moment to realize he was walking alone because Mycroft had stopped in his tracks and was looking a bit like he’d been struck by lightning, which would be a very good circus act, in Greg’s opinion, if someone built a lightning machine that fit under a circus tent.

“What?”

“I…”

“Yeah?”

“I know a magic trick.”

“You do?”

Greg’s eyes lit up brightly and he raced back the few steps towards Mycroft, then retreated half of them when Mycroft’s hands flew up to cover his nose from the smell.

“Yes.”

“Can you show me?”

The hesitation in Mycroft’s eyes was multilayered. First, because he’d never shown his trick to anyone but Sherlock, who could not comment on the performance and, second, because Greg smelled SO terribly bad. However…

“Yes.”

Reaching into his pocket, Mycroft drew out a half crown which he held up for Greg to see. With a flourish, he closed his hand, waved it about and opened it again.

“It’s gone! You made it vanish!”

“Yes. Though I would appreciate the return of my money, so if you would step closer…”

Mycroft held his breath while Greg drew a few steps closer, then after a quick motion with his hand towards Greg’s ear, showed the coin reappeared between his fingers. Greg’s falling backwards on his bum in the dirt was not precisely applause, but Mycroft found it satisfying, nonetheless.

“You took it from my ear! How’d it get there?”

“Magic.”

Greg’s wide, shining smile was, in its own way, matched in luminance by Mycroft’s shyly pleased one which didn’t diminish in the slightest when Greg leapt to his feet and did a little pirate jig.

“That’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen! Do you know any more tricks?”

“A… a few.”

Though that was the one for which he had the most practice and confidence.

“Can I see them?”

“They involve cards.”

“Oh. I don’t have any. Do you?”

“Not on my person, no.”

“Can I see your tricks when we _do_ have cards?”

“I… I suppose.”

“Yes! Do you have a hat and cape?”

“I have a selection of hats but have no reason for cape.”

Though it might be something… interesting… to own.

“You need a top hat and black cape because that’s what magician’s wear when they do their show.”

“Ah. Yes, I have seen stage magicians and they do tend towards that appearance. I, however, lack a desire to perform on stage, so there is no reason to adopt their standard costume.”

The chances were high, though, that someone on staff _could_ turn attention towards making him a truly impressive cape. Mummy’s and Father’s wardrobes alone contained enough fabric to supply an army of magicians with capes, properly lined with colorful silk.

“That doesn’t mean you _can’t_ have a hat and cape. You’re great! And… yes! I can catch a rabbit for you to pull out of your hat! I’m on that, Mycroft, don’t worry a bit. I’ll have a nice rabbit for your tricks as soon as you have a hat to pull it out of. Do you have any white rabbits hopping about? I haven’t seen any yet, but you’ve been here longer and would know because I would think they’re fairly easy to see what with being white and all.”

“I am not wearing a rabbit on my head!”

“The hat’s on your head, not the rabbit!”

Mycroft’s hands flew up in the air in a now-familiar gesture that Charles took note of while sipping his tea and watching the boys walk right past the farmhouse and continue down the lane that ultimately led to the manor. He briefly considered going out to offer to drive them home but decided against since it was not a terribly great distance, the weather was pleasant, time alone to share a walk and bit of conversation would be good for the duo and, very importantly, here there tea aplenty and scones were coming out of the oven. However, he would keep an ear open for screams of terror signaling the sighting of horsemen of the Apocalypse, or Master Mycroft finding a speck of mud on his trousers, though, to err on the side of caution.

__________

“I am in agony…”

Mrs. Turner snorted but put an extra biscuit on Mycroft’s plate to soothe his agitated humours, then got back to the important work of getting the night’s soup course simmering on the stovetop.

“You don’t look agonied.”

“Agnonized, plebian.”

“Ok, but you still don’t look it. And it was fun! Loads of fun. We planned your magician’s costume and found treasure…”

“A rusted axe blade is not treasure.”

“It is if a Viking used it.”

“They did not.”

“Are you sure?”

“Very. It was of decidedly modern design.”

“I’m not convinced.”

“We shall visit the library where I can show you proof.”

“You have a real Viking axe?”

“Books! We have books on ancient weapons.”

“Really? I want to read them!”

“That was precisely my intent so as to prove you wrong.”

“Or right.”

“Inconceivable.”

“Very… not that.”

Mycroft’s mother drew back a step and smiled gently at the antics. Spying on her son was becoming something of a habit, but a delightful one, truth be told. He had walked! Mycroft actually walked for a greater distance than to a waiting car. And was only complaining about it as a matter of form now that he had bathed and abandoned his slightly-sweaty clothes. Though it had not been a difficult decision to take in young Gregory, she _had_ worried about the impact on her eldest, someone so very used to a solitary life and as set in his ways as an octogenarian. It was still too early to be certain, despite current appearances, but there was firm reason to hope this association would greatly benefit her dear son.

“Mummy? Have you completed your unseemly spying?”

Though Mycroft would _always_ be Mycroft.

“That I stopped to adjust a bothersome button on my sleeve does not equate with spying.”

“Sherlock could fabricate a more believable excuse.”

“I shall consult with him next time, then. Gregory, you appear most happy.”

I count, at minimum, three biscuits in your gleefully smiling mouth.

“Jyep!”

“Chew, dear. I hear an informative and entertaining day was had by you both. Mycroft, have you learned something of our farming interests?”

“Yes. I despise them.”

“Then let us remove from the table the butter you seem poised to add to your bread.”

“I do not despise the products of their labors.”

“Of course. In any case, Charles reports the farm manager was most impressed with your comportment during your visit and welcomes you back anytime you choose to again learn more about agriculture.”

“And ride cows?”

“And, Gregory, ride cows. Or milk them.”

“Yes! Oh, that sounds like fun. What ho, Mrs. Cow! How about a spot of milk for my breakfast, what say? Or a nice pail of it to make some butter and cheese? Must have a lot for me what with your lady parts there being the size of a pirate ship.”

Mrs. Turner had worked for the Holmes family a very long time and this was only the second or third occasion the lady of the house had heard her giggle her near-silent and surreptitious giggle.

“Yes, a full udder does indicate plentiful milk for the taking. Shall tomorrow bring a tour of the fields? Learn the art of growing crops? I wager, Gregory, there are some differences between the craft and the sort of work for which you already have expertise due to your father’s tutelage.”

“Ooooooh…”

“Oh, good heavens…”

“What? Growing things is fun! Especially when they’re pretty, like flowers, or tasty, like fruit and veg. One day, I’m going to have a place for growing plants. Maybe an allotment or, if I’m not a pirate and living on a desert island, maybe in a house that has a nice space for a garden. I’m going to learn everything I can so I can grow the very best of whatever I grow.”

“Or simply purchase what you want from a grocer.”

“What if there’s a war? I don’t want to want something for lunch and the grocer says…”

“If you say ‘What ho’ I will throttle you.”

“You can’t reach me from there so, What ho, Greg me lad! No carrots for you because the soldiers need them because they’re good for the eyes and soldiers need to see the best! Should have grown your own, lazy rotter!”

Greg wagged a reproachful finger at the imaginary Greg sitting at one of the empty chairs at the small table in the kitchen and ignored Mycroft’s thrown-up hands and rolled eyes. At this juncture, Mycroft’s mother made a quick exit so she could laugh at the antics without disrupting the ongoing inanity.

“For your information, lunatic, there shan’t be another war because Father is seeing to it.”

“Oh, how’s he doing that?”

“In his extremely brilliant and highly competent way.”

“Oh, how’s he doing that?”

“I am not privy to the specific machinations which are, of course, complicated by the fact that we are _currently_ engaged in a war, but rest assured that he is more than up to the task. And working at it now.”

Mycroft nodded confidently and put extra butter on his bread to emphasize his point that this rationing rubbish was never to darken their door again.

“Ok. If you believe that, so do I. Maybe we can ask him about it when you write another letter. Or if he visits or… does he have a telephone?”

“Several.”

“Several! That’s… that’s unbelievable! Then he’s sure to ring you and you can ask him about his mashnations. Until then, we have time to perfect your…”

Greg hopped off his chair, scurried over to Mycroft to whisper ‘… magic act,’ then scurried back to his chair, throwing a quick look over to Mrs. Turner to be certain she hadn’t overheard their big secret.

“I… I suppose practice of a skill _is_ something to be lauded.”

“We’ll get started as soon as we’re done here. Then we can play marbles and listen to the wireless. Or do something else. What do you want to do?”

For once, Mycroft had no firm answer ready at hand.

“I… am unsure.”

“We see, then. Sometimes it’s that way, you know. You’re just strolling about with nothing to do and BLAM! you get hit with an idea for something amazingly fun to do and you pick yourself off the ground from being blammed and run off to do it.”

Greg pantomimed his thesis by falling out of his chair onto the floor and leaping up, smacking his head with his open palm, running out the kitchen and back again, sneaking two additional biscuits off the cooling tray as spoils for his award-winning performance. He did, however, share one with Mycroft for being an attentive audience.

“I saw that, you thieving boy.”

“Oops.”

Mrs. Turner dropped another biscuit in front of each of them and scowled thunderously.

“If you’re going to steal, make it worth the risk, daft child.”

“That seems smart.”

“And don’t you forget it.”

Greg nodded his understanding and, after a moment, Mycroft did, too, because his scowl had yet to quite reach Mrs. Turner’s level of mastery. Once she turned back to her work, though, it morphed into a sheepish smile that was shared with Greg before they both shoved their baked booty into their mouths. Another rule of thieving – make certain the goods were safe once you had them and there wasn’t any place safer than inside their very happy stomachs…


	9. Chapter 9

Mycroft looked at Greg.

Greg looked at Mycroft.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes.

Greg narrowed his eyes in return.

Mycroft pursed his lips slightly.

Greg pursed his lips even more. Because this was taking for bloody ever!

“Just go!”

“This requires a level of analysis far greater than I anticipated. Remain silent while I conduct it or I shall label you a cheat.”

“I don’t cheat!”

“Then remain silent.”

Greg narrowed and pursed so much that his face scrunch threatened to implode his skull into a black hole but he stayed silent while Mycroft surveyed the battlefield and ran a series of calculations through his mind.

“GWWWWWWWWWWWWWAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

The plush bear landed directly in the center of the circle, scattering marbles in all directions and irredeemably corrupting Mycroft’s mental mathematics.

“Sherlock! That was dastardly.”

The baby cocked his head a moment, then erupted into a laugh that his brother would swear upon his grave held a mocking tone.

“That _was_ properly dastardly, Sherlock, but you moved some marbles, at least, unlike your brother.”

“Slander! I have moved a bounty of marbles and, let us make quantitative note, more out of the circle than you.”

Mycroft proudly waved a hand across his prisoners of war which did, in truth, outnumber Greg’s.

“Ok, that part is true. You’re very good at this, when you bother to actually use your shooter for more than some gypsy crystal ball or something. I can’t believe you haven’t played before. Does your dad play? Maybe you inherited it from him like I did my dad liking the color orange. And purple. Especially when they’re together.”

A soft toy in the shape of a block smacked Greg squarely in the head and he made certain to put on a dramatic show to make Sherlock crow with baby laughter.

“I’ll prove it to you, Sherlock. We’ll draw pictures and I’ll use scads of purple and orange so you see how right I am. First, though, I have to lose to your brother in marbles. You truly are tops at this, Mycroft. We’re going to have loads of fun!”

Mycroft smiled smugly at the praise and, he secretly admitted, that he was _being_ praised. It was always assumed he would succeed at what he tried. That he would _excel_ and one did not praise what one expected. It was… nice to hear, even if it was for something as ridiculous as marbles.

“I concede that the game has offered me unexpected challenge so… I will not mind playing further in the future.”

“Yes! Marbles are great so that’s going to another great thing for us to do to have fun.”

“PWAH!”

Greg looked at Mycroft who shook his head and cleared his throat.

“Come again, Sherlock?”

“PWAH!”

“That was singularly unhelpful.”

Sherlock’s tiny lips formed a disgruntled pout and he kicked at the blanket they’d set on the ground so he could play outdoors with them.

“As was that.”

“PWAH pfffffftttttbbbbbb!”

The last bit of burbling was made while Sherlock shook his head back and forth, then fell sideways onto his blanket and rolled onto his back.

“PWAH!”

“We need a book of baby words.”

“Babies do not form actual words; they simply make sounds that ape what they hear around them. Eventually, they ape actual words and begin to use discernible language.”

“Ok, but we still need a book of baby words because he seems to think that one’s important. Maybe it’s his nappy.”

“Much that concerns Sherlock centers on his nappy.”

“Check it.”

“Are you insane?”

“No more than the last time you asked.”

“That does not rebut my concerns as much as you might hope.”

“Well, I don’t know about that, but he’s your brother so you should do the nappy check.”

“You are the one who is bafflingly unfazed by noxious odors.”

“I just don’t think everything is stinky that you think is stinky but nothing, nothing in the world, is as stinky as baby poo. Some of mum’s friends have babies and I watched one being changed so I could learn how and… I think I fainted because the smell hit me and I don’t remember much after that besides gagging and seeing spots.”

“Yes, that is not surprising. It is both potent and pungent.”

“Do you think…”

“Always.”

“Yeah, but do you think they could make a weapon out of that? To fight Nazis?”

“Hmmmm… it is certainly not lethal, however, could be debilitating if deployed at close range.”

“It’s not as if they’d run out, either, since there are a lot of babies and they make enormous amounts of poo.”

“There are certain prohibitions, I believe, concerning chemical weapons. Mustard gas, for instance. That could complicate the issue.”

“Mustard doesn’t stink.”

“Mustard gas is not made from mustard, buffoon.”

“Then they shouldn’t name it that and confuse people! A lady goes into a shop for a bit of mustard and I leap onto to her to save her from being gassed… that’s just not something that should _ever_ happen.”

“Yes, though for reasons wholly unrelated to your clownish argument.”

“I like clowns.”

“Unsurprising.”

Sherlock straightened his arms and legs and shook both, making a loud sound that wasn’t a cry, but more a threat that crying would soon commence if his demands, whatever they might be, were not soon met and to his complete satisfaction.

“This is bad.”

“I agree. However, I am at a loss as to how to proceed.”

“I have an idea. And I can run fast.”

“Are those two sentences in any manner related?”

“Yeah. Watch.”

Greg tore off as fast as his small legs could carry him, speeding across the grounds then barreling through the corridors of the manor to make one stop before freezing in place, letting out a roar of defeat, then sucking back in his roared breath to continue barreling towards Edwards’s office where he gained the necessary information to snatch victory from the jaws of the resucked defeat. And gave Edwards reason to set aside his work to begin the much more enjoyable activity of spying on amateur dramatics.

“HERE I COME!”

Greg only tripped once on the race back to basecamp where he dropped his prizes at Mycroft’s feet and smiled with a pride only true and complete triumph could merit.

“Gas masks?”

“Exactly! This way, we can check the nappy and not faint or die or see spots.”

Mycroft had a retort poised on his tongue but then realized the scheme was not a farcical as he’d first thought. Especially since Sherlock had begun to wriggle and a few wriggles produced a telltale, deadly waft.

“Have you a fresh nappy?”

Greg reached down and lifted out the nappy he’d tucked into his trousers, then reached around to draw out the damp cloth he’d also tucked into his trousers, but this against his back so it didn’t wet the dry nappy.

“Ah… I cannot find fault with your preparation.”

“Like I said, I’ve seen this done, so I’m a bit of an expert. What ho, Sherlock! Ready to be less stinky and… gooey?”

Mycroft’s disgust was clearly writ on this face and Charles duly snapped a photo from his concealed location behind a hedge while Edwards employed his best shorthand skills to transcribe the event for posterity.

“I will not permit a speck of… goo… on my person.”

“I’ve brought gloves!”

Greg reached to his side where he’d tucked a pair of gloves, which instigated a near-tackle by Charles, who was held back by a silently-laughing Edwards because Greg had, apparently, found the driver’s leather driving gloves while Charles was frantically grabbing his camera to pretend at being a war correspondent.

“Those may suffice. Very well, let us prepare.”

Each boy donned their gas mask, adjusted to fit correctly, then had a small all-gesture argument which resulted in Greg donning the overlarge gloves and Mycroft carrying the clean nappy and damp cloth, despite its former residence against Greg’s bottom. Cautiously approaching Sherlock who had stopped wriggling and making discontented noises to scrutinize the space aliens coming his way, the two boys thought a moment, then Mycroft nodded to Greg who took out the final item which had been bulging his shirt, that item being the baby gas mask he then carefully fitted Sherlock with since it seemed a bit unfair for him and Mycroft to be safe from the poison smell but not Sherlock, even if he was the one who made the stinky weapon in the first place. Given the situation was too bewildering even for a baby genius, Sherlock chose to hold off on the somewhat typhoonic tantrum he was preparing to throw and continue, instead, to observe the aliens and their unfathomable ways.

Greg fretted with his gloves a moment then took them off to tuck the gas mask bib up towards Sherlock’s chest and unpin the nappy, quickly setting the pins aside and redonning the gloves since the danger was now escalating at a frightening pace. Slowly and guardedly, he parted the nappy sides, drew down the front, then leapt up and started running, Mycroft matching his pace, leaving Sherlock to enjoy the fresh air on his skin while the older boys hid behind a tree.

Ripping off his mask, Greg breathed harshly and pointed a shaking hand in Sherlock’s direction.

“It’s green!”

“That… what a monstrous sight.”

“Now we know why it smells so bad.”

“Do you… might Sherlock be ill?”

Both boys looked back at the baby who seemed content to kick his feet and smack at the gas mask’s face plate with his teeny hands.

“He hasn’t acted like he is and I suspect Sherlock’s the type to let you know, loudly, if he was feeling poorly.”

“True. I admit, however, this is an area in which I lack any appreciable knowledge.”

“Sick babies or green poo?”

“Both.”

“Ok, that’s me, too, so we need to think. You’re good at that, so… go!”

“What am I to think about?”

“Green poo!”

“I would rather not.”

“Nobody would, but not everybody has a stink weapon they have to fight.”

Mycroft devoted the entirety of his mental capacity to the problem and, ultimately, threw up his hands and sighed.

“Ultimately, the issue of color is not relevant to the immediate situation. True it is the most disturbing image known to humanity; however, visual imagery is not, of itself, a physically debilitating thing.”

“What’s that mean?”

“What you only see cannot harm you.”

“Like scary monsters in the films?”

“Yes.”

“Ok, makes sense.”

“Therefore, the only issue that remains relevant is the stench, against which we are protected. I cannot see a way to lessen further the mental damage from this endeavor, however, we _can_ lessen the duration of the assault.”

“Does that mean work fast?”

“Yes.”

“Ok, that also makes sense.”

“Then we can return Sherlock to his nursemaid for further attention.”

“But… he won’t be able to play with us if we do that.”

“If he has some undisclosed sickness, time may be of the essence.”

“I can’t argue with that. It’s true and smart. If he starts to scream, though…”

“We shall reevaluate the situation.”

“Ok. Do you know any battle songs?”

“No.”

“Then we march in silence.”

Greg jammed his gas mask back onto his head and began marching towards Sherlock who had decided his unexpected cave was not entirely to his liking but somewhat fascinating as it offered a variety of new textures and smells for his baby senses to explore so he would forestall wailing for a few moments longer especially since the aliens were returning.

The shorter of the aliens stared at the scene and felt his hopes that magical fairies had somehow stolen away the offending substance dashed like a storm-battered ship on a rocky shore. Fairies were officially no help whatsoever! Double-checking that his gloves were fully covering his hands and unhearing of the whimper of loss emanating from a random hedge, Greg got on his knees and crawled the last few paces towards his target, followed closely by Mycroft who had no idea why they were crawling but he’d stuck the cloth and nappy into his pocket and gone along anyway because he also couldn’t shake the feeling that the bioweapon they were approaching was best met with the same trepidation and care as if it _was_ a sample of mustard gas in the most fragile of glass vials being held by a nervous monkey.

Unsure how well he could simply slide the nappy from underneath the baby, Greg reached out and took Sherlock’s feet, lifting him, then setting him back down again and falling onto his side as if he had died. Which he wished he had because he had a better look at the horror and it was worse than a scary monster, because scary monsters didn’t look anywhere near as scary as the Green Poo of Death as it would henceforth be called until the moment he died which would hopefully be in about five seconds.

After a death-lacking five seconds and a subtle toe prod by Mycroft, Greg rolled back up and tried to imagine the nappy was a Nazi and he was his dad and how his dad would be brave and do whatever it took to fight his enemy. In this case, that being lifting baby feet and pulling the nappy away, shaking his free fist at Mycroft who had scurried back from the abomination of nature, then shaking an open hand as he waved for the damp cloth that Mycroft tossed from his still-unacceptably-close position six feet away. Trying desperately to channel his father and failing miserably, Greg haltingly reached out and began cleaning Sherlock, who decided now was an excellent time to squirm like he was being paid twenty stuffed lambies to do it. At this point, Greg began to wonder why mums weren’t sent to fight Nazis because it couldn’t be as hard as this and they’d have won the war in a week!

After many long moments of exhausting, sweat-drenching baby de-pooing, Greg threw the cloth as far from him as possible, about three feet at this stage, and waved for the clean nappy, which Mycroft again tossed over, being far too terrified to be within range of any additional soiled-fabric flinging. Sliding Sherlock to an assuredly clean space on the blanket, Greg used his free hand to spread out the nappy and laid down Sherlock’s feet so he could get the nappy folded up, then carefully pinned it, checking that it was snug enough to stay in place. Finally, with all due and deserved ceremony, Greg removed his gas mask.

“Victory!”

Sherlock’s happy kicking earned him the removal of his own gas mask and help sitting up so he could use a fist to smack Greg’s chin for being slow and sluggardly tending to his needs. For his part, Mycroft waited to see if either Greg or Sherlock collapsed in a delayed reaction to lingering fumes and, when that didn’t happen, finally removed his own gas mask from his face.

“Congratulations, Gregory… I must applaud your courage and commitment to the task.”

“I’m not going to lie; I didn’t think I’d survive a couple of times but… we’ve got to tell your dad about the Green Poo of Death. I really think this could be an amazing secret weapon.”

“I am inclined to agree, however, I have no idea of the quantity that could be produced. A goodly amount would be required to turn the tide of war.”

“Babies poo a lot.”

“True. But this is a very special variant and that removes the simple path from setting this plan in motion. Regardless, I shall include this information in my next letter. Or phone conversation. In the meantime…”

Mycroft slowly turned towards the soiled nappy which Greg, at least, had set in such a way the eldritch horror it contained was not visible to human eyes.

“Oh. Yeah.”

“What must we do?”

“Bury it. There’s no other choice.”

“I concur. An unsuspecting citizen cannot be allowed to accidentally stumble across it.”

“Or a rabbit.”

“I feel they might show more sense than many of the local citizens and leave the blasted thing well enough alone.”

“I’m not taking any chances. I’ll find a spade and put it… put everything… into a nice deep hole. You take Sherlock see if he needs a doctor or something. Maybe an animal doctor, actually. I’m not sure human babies are supposed to do that.”

“If anyone could contract a non-human ailment, it would be Sherlock. I will keep you informed.”

“Thanks.”

“This is a valiant sacrifice, Gregory. Keep your gas mask at the ready.”

“I will. I’ll be brave for my dad. Actually, I’ll be brave for mum because she’s the one who had to change _my_ nappy and, though I know I NEVER made anything as horrible as that, it still had to be torture for her. We should do something nice for your mum and the nursemaid. Pick some flowers for them or something.”

“An excellent suggestion. If we are not immediately making haste to hospital with Sherlock, I shall begin on that and you may join me after you finish the burial.”

“A plan! We have one.”

“We do. Come, Sherlock. Let us determine if you are stricken with plague or other ravaging disease.”

Mycroft plucked Sherlock from the blanket and after he and Greg both froze in preparation for a sky-splitting shriek that never arrived, began walking towards the house, gently bouncing the baby in his arms. For his part, Greg flopped onto a clean patch of ground and drew strength from the soil, grass and worms as he tried to remember if he’d seen a shovel in the garage or if he’d have to find the gardener. Finally feeling he could carry on with the task at hand, Greg sat up, thought a moment, then pulled off the gloves and tossed them onto the nappy. It would feel good to have actual dirt on his hands and he could use the spade to shove all the stinky stuff into the hole without ever having to touch it. Then he’d get to pick flowers! That was tops! And not only because flowers smelled nice and might wash the nightmare of The Green Poo of Death from his mind.

Running off in search of his spade, Greg wasn’t in position to notice a camera sporting, despondent figure emerge from behind a hedge and walk over to stare down at the sad tableau containing his beloved driving gloves along with his trying-not-to-laugh companion.

“Bad luck, old chap.”

“They lived a good life and died a noble death.”

“I’ll see about another pair in the village.”

“They won’t be the same.”

“No, but… maybe they’ll be _better_. I’ll do my very best, I promise.”

“Might that best include a large glass of something extremely strong from your private collection of excellent whisky?”

“Two large glasses.”

“Sounds good. Will you be joining me?”

“One of them _was_ for me.”

“You were mistaken.”

“I’ll make note for next time.”

“Next time?”

“Master Gregory shall be with us for a long while, remember.”

“I’ll be in the garage. Just bring the bottle.”


	10. Chapter 10

_… Ive made it green so you can see what neerly killed me in its proper color. The maid said thats normal for babys but we think you should ask one of the doctors where you work if thats true becuase green is just wrong for poo. But we got to use our gas masks so that counts as a drill and Edwrds said that to and hes a warden so that’s good. We went with him last night on his walk that is the house and garag and two other houses which are small but people live there who work in the big house Mycroft lives in and I got to yell PUT THAT LIGHT OUT at Charles who had a car and headlamps and Edwrds shook a finger which is good because we dont want to be bombed! He was laughing to and I dont know why and Mycroft didn’t either but thats ok because old people do strang things and I know that is a fact._

_It may rain today and Mycroft wants to read. I do to because we are going to read in the plant room which is nice and if it rains there will be rain all around becuase there is lots of glass and I will read a new book and watch rain. Then we will play a game that I like because we did books what Mycroft wanted and so its my turn. Then eat biscuits becuase why not. Then we may…_

“You are still writing?”

Greg turned towards Mycroft, who was standing just outside Greg’s open bedroom door and emitting a well-balanced mix of disbelief and total belief because he knew to whom he was speaking.

“First I had to think! I had to remember all the things we’ve been doing. And are going to do. That’s a lot of thinking and lots of anything takes time.”

Mycroft felt he should offer rebuttal, but a proper reflection on various activities and how much time ‘lots’ would entail was not precisely how he wished to spend the remainder of his day.

“Very well, but if you wish to post that today, you are close to failure.”

“What time is… oh! Yes! Ok, just one more minute.”

_… play some games and maybe marbels which will be fun on the floors since they are shiny and you can slid as much as you want with socks. I love and miss you Mum. I hope you are safe and not sad._

_Greg_

“There! I had more to say, but I can put it in my next letter. Short letters might be best, anyway, because Mum is very busy and may not have time to sit and read something long. I’ll add more drawings, too, because you can know a lot from a drawing that you’d have to read for hours to know from words.”

“That is… very well, there is actually some merit to that. Let us see your letter posted and then we may begin our reading period.”

“Will Sherlock be reading with us?”

“Given Sherlock reading with us entails neither I nor you reading at all, beyond his children’s book, I think not.”

“I suppose that is true. Will we be listening to the wireless?”

“Is there some alternate activity enjoyed by your tribe of people, _also_ called reading, that does not, in actuality, involve the reading of a book?”

“What?”

“Reading does not involve the wireless.”

“Well… no, but you can do both at once. Have a listen and read at the same time.”

“Not if you wish to fully appreciate either the wireless program or the book you are reading.”

“You just split your brain!”

“Are you mad?”

“No, it’s just smart! One half gets to listen to the wireless and the other gets to read a book. Then it’s ‘What ho, Brain Half #1! Having a bit of a laugh, are you? My book is a cracking adventure so isn’t this fun and brilliant! Of course it is, because this is a smart plan for smart people which is why we’re brain pieces.”

Mycroft stared at Greg who stared back because this was really simple and Mycroft normally understood simple things extremely quickly.

“You are insane. What you describe is… schizophrenia.”

“What’s that? It sounds tops!”

“It is a mental disease.”

“You think a lot about my brain, do you know that?”

“Because you keep mentioning it! What ho, brain! Feel a bit like going potty and taking Mycroft with you? Get on with it, then! Pip pip and all that, you cheeky fellow!... why are you laughing?”

“Because you sounded like me! HA!”

Mycroft scowled thunderously, then slowly began to smile a shy smile.

“That was the point.”

“I was jabbed with it! What’s that thing that’s like a spear, but the knights carry it on horses?”

“A lance.”

“I was lanced!”

Greg let out a blood-curdling scream, grabbed his stomach, and plummeted off his chair to continue twitching with death throes for a few seconds before exhaling a loud, long death gurgle that had Mycroft trying not to giggle.

“What in the… oh, just Greg dying. Very well, carry on.”

Mycroft looked over his shoulder at Mrs. Hudson who was now strolling away and he had to admit that hers was the proper reaction for a feigned household murder.

“If you remain deceased, your letter will not be posted today.”

Greg was on his feet so fast, Mycroft wasn’t certain his eyes actually perceived the motion.

“Right! What ho, Mr. Envelope! Off you go on your adventure!”

Mr. Envelope and Mr. Letter suffered a bit of crumpling due to over-eager hands, but remained stalwart messengers for carrying forth Greg’s sentiments through sun, rain or the occasional bombing run by enemy forces.

“Ready! Then we can read our books. And, I suppose if you can’t split your brain in two, we can wait until later to listen to the wireless. I’m not certain there’s much to listen to now except news, anyway, and that’s certainly not fun. Onward to post a letter!”

Greg held his letter high and waved it like a flag, marching towards the door and neither boy quite noticed Mycroft falling into step with him as they traversed the corridor and stairs.

“Mycroft, there you are.”

The boys also didn’t notice they stopped in unison to look at Mycroft’s mother, who was stepping out of the library.

“Yes, Mummy?”

“Your father just phoned. I simply wanted you to know he is well and received your letter.”

“Is… is that all?”

“Is more required?”

“He… I see. I am glad the post arrived properly. More confidence, Gregory, that your letter will fly on swift wings to your mother.”

“Yeah, ok. I’ll post it and then we can…”

“I shall be in my room and do not wish to be disturbed. Do enjoy your day, Gregory.”

Mycroft turned on his heel and walked back up the stairs, leaving Greg staring after him until he was out of sight.

“I do apologize, Gregory. I have no idea what came over him.”

Greg turned his eyes towards Mycroft’s mother and had to wonder, and it was a shameful thing _to_ wonder, if she was being honest.

“Why didn’t Mycroft’s dad want to talk to him?”

“Pardon?”

“Mycroft asked, in his letter, for his dad to phone or write and now he phones but doesn’t ask to talk to Mycroft. Why not?”

It was an extremely rare thing for the lady of the house to be at a loss for words, given words were an integral part of her life as a social and political hostess, as well as other duties, so finding none leaping to her tongue was a highly unfamiliar, and highly unpalatable, experience.

“He… James was most busy.”

“He talked to you.”

This time, the worlds that leaped to her tongue, were as sour in flavor as the lack thereof.

“I _am_ his wife.”

Greg’s impassive stare was absolutely appropriate, in her eyes, for what her words said beyond their order of letters for the life of one small boy who may not be a wife, but also was someone of great importance.

“Ok. I’m going to post my letter now.”

Walking towards the front hall where the mail basket was located, Greg wrestled with what to do. Mycroft was upset. And he should be! His own mum couldn’t phone often since she didn’t have a phone but Mycroft’s dad did. Several! Mycroft should be _very_ upset but he had no idea what to do about that. Sometimes, when you were upset, you wanted to be alone and people being a bother made things worse. Sometimes, when you upset, you _thought_ you wanted to be alone but people trying to help made you feel better. It was hard!

Putting his letter in the basket, Greg sat down on the floor, being the closest sitting surface, and thought. He wanted to help but didn’t want to do something that _wasn’t_ helpful. But also didn’t want _not_ to do something when doing something would have been the helpful thing. For all the talk about his brain, why didn’t it work better when he needed it!

“Something wrong, lad?”

Greg looked up to see Mrs. Hudson looking at him with an expression that said she wouldn’t be surprised by an answer either way.

“I don’t know something.”

“Alright, that describes everyone in the world. Any something in particular?”

“Yes.”

After a lack of elaboration, Mrs. Hudson nodded and guessed that this was going to be one of those things that you had to be under the age of ten to understand.

“Can I help?”

“That’s the problem!”

Lovely.

“Want to be a bit more clear on that?”

“I… no. I have to think.”

“Thinking is always good. Something I recommend for many problems and situations. I’d ask, though, if you feel you have enough information to make your thinking useful?”

“What do you mean?”

“Thinking can be hard if you don’t know enough about a problem.”

“That’s true. Maybe that’s why my thinking isn’t going very well.”

“It’s possible. Something to consider, at least.”

“You’re right.”

Greg’s face scrunched up so hard that Mrs. Hudson worried that it would stick that way, the first verified example of such a thing happening in the countless times it had been threatened over the millennia, but she simply waited until, what she thought would be Greg actually starting to talk about what was bothering him turned into Greg leaping up, yelling ‘thanks!’ and racing off as fast as his legs could carry him.

The racing continued out of the house and around the house until Greg stopped and roared because he didn’t find what he wanted. Then he roared again because he was Greg Lestrade, adventurer extraordinaire and maybe pirate and space explorer! This next race was a reconnaissance mission which was not as successful as he would have liked, but not a complete failure.

Now it was time for an equipment check. Shoes? Check! Arms? Check! Muscles? Check! Lots of reading books and comics with monkeys in them? Check! Time to begin.

Greg slotted a foot in a chipped area of a stone at the base of the house and reached up to wedge his fingers in a crack in the mortar between two other stones above him. Next foot on the bit of stone jutting out slightly to his left and other hand close to the first. He was off the ground! Now, just a few hundred feet or so more and he’d be victorious!

Raising his hands in victory undid said victory as Greg fell backwards onto the ground upon releasing his grip. That was important information! You couldn’t let go, not for a single instant! You could with a tree or a pipe because your legs had a bit of a wrap-around it but he couldn’t wrap his legs around the house. That was part of being an adventurer extraordinaire, though. You tried things, learned and tried again but better.

Foot. Hand. Foot. Hand. Victory! Without raised hands! Foot again. Hand again. Foot…foot ag…again. Hand again. Hurrah!

Greg slowly climbed upwards and to the right finally reaching a convenient bit of architectural decoration that made an acceptable tree to facilitate climbing even higher. Then that idea was jettisoned because it wasn’t rough and craggy and his legs had started to slide and what good was that? None!

Slowly, Greg kept climbing which, as he was now learning, something terribly important for an adventurer extraordinaire, his arms did not appreciate this amount of climbing when they had to do a LOT of work that they weren’t precisely used to doing. It wasn’t too much further, though, and there was a ledge and he could sit a moment and rest. He was lucky he wasn’t very big, though, because a big person probably couldn’t do this at all! Their arms would snap off and they’d fall while looking at their arms still on the wall and that would be a terrible thing.

Several more difficult minutes passed before Greg pulled himself onto the narrow ledge that ran along a series of windows, one of which was Mycroft’s. It was only then that Greg’s much-mentioned brain wondered if it would have been a smarter idea to go into one of the other rooms and crawl out onto the ledge instead of climbing. Hmmm… he’d have to think about it and he didn’t have time to think right now, so he’d do that thinking later.

Now was time to budge over and peek through Mycroft’s window to see how sad he was. Or mad. Or both! You could be both at the same time. There wasn’t a law or anything against it. He’d felt that way when his dad went away. It was important, because they needed soldiers to fight, but he’d still been sad about it. And mad, too, because that meant him and Mum were alone now and sad and there were bombs and sirens and that was certainly something to be mad about!

Looking at Mycroft now… he looked sad. But it was a sad he recognized. It was the sort of sad you looked when you’d been mad before, a lot, but nothing ever changed so why stay mad when it was hard and made your brain hot. That’s when you got sad because nothing changed and the mad made you feel horrid and feeling sad was easier. Your brain wasn’t as hot and you weren’t feeling as if you wanted to throw a punch or shout or who knows what and got tired when it was all done, all for nothing to be different. Sad was… quiet. You could hide being sad, too. It was harder to hide being mad, since you were making mad faces and had angry eyes. When you were sad, you just looked… sad. Which could look like thinking sometimes, so it was double camouflage. You could be sad for a very long time and nobody was the wiser.

Unless they were looking for it.

“Master Gregory!”

Greg looked down and waved at Charles, who had taken a moment to decide whether or not he should call out and, potentially, startle the boy into falling.

“Hi!”

“What are you doing up there?” 

Greg bit his lip because being honest and saying he was spying wasn’t really an answer he wanted to give. And explaining it, honestly, which would reveal Mycroft being sad wasn’t something he wanted to say, either, because Mycroft probably didn’t want people to know or he wouldn’t have gone away to his room alone. Oh! Good idea…

“Sitting.”

That was completely honest and didn’t give away any of Mycroft’s secrets.

“I can see that!”

“Then why’d you ask?”

There was something to be said, in Charles’s mind, for the somber maturity of Mycroft Holmes.

“ _Why_ are you sitting up there, then?”

Nope! Not gonna say!

“Because it’s nice.”

Which is true! It’s actually very nice with the breeze and and being able to see far even with the dark clouds in the sky. Not even a tiny lie to be found anywhere.

“It’s dangerous!”

“Only a little.”

Charles gaped and remembered that small boys had very different ideas about what was dangerous than adults.

“I’ll get a ladder.”

“That is not necessary, Charles. Thank you.”

Greg’s head whipped around and he saw Mycroft leaning out of his now-open window, a stern frown adorning his lips.

“Hi! You weren’t supposed to know I was here.”

“And it did not occur to you that shouting at top volume might not alert me to your presence?”

“No.”

Mycroft threw up his hands, which was of a threw _out_ since he was a bit more horizontal in position now than vertical.

“Get in here, you dunderhead.”

Mycroft waved off Charles who very slowly walked away, ready to run back and try to… do something… if Greg suddenly plummeted to the ground. Which, fortunately, failed to occur.

“Thanks! I hadn’t planned on how to get back down yet, so this is a handy thing!”

“Why were you there? Were you… Gregory! You were spying on me!”

“Uhhhh… yeah. I don’t have to try to tell a true fib now, so yeah, I sort of very much was.”

Leaving aside the ‘true fib’ bit, Mycroft stared at Greg and started to feel his temper fraying. However, it failed to boil over into anything typically volcanic because among this spy’s many failings could not be found a lack of basic decency such as was necessary for such a gross invasion of privacy. Without, that is, what he felt was just cause.

“For what possible reason?”

“Because… I wanted to see if you were ok after your dad… well, you know, and I wasn’t certain you’d tell me if I asked. Or you might tell me and it wouldn’t be the truth. And, if I didn’t know how you were feeling, I couldn’t fathom out the best way to try and help.”

A small shrug punctuated Greg’s words and Mycroft felt his anger ebb away and be replaced by something different, though he wasn’t wholly confident he could give the feeling a name.

“I… I am not upset.”

“Yeah, you are. And you should be! Do you… do you want to talk about it?”

Mycroft’s brain immediately leapt towards saying ‘no,’ but the rest of him seemed to disagree and he found himself walking back to his bed, hopping up on it and not complaining when Greg hopped up next to him.

“Father is extremely busy.”

“That’s what everyone says.”

“He is very often away, even before the war started. Not often at home, you see.”

“That’s no fun. My dad works hard and is very busy, but he comes home at night and we eat and talk and listen to the wireless or take a walk or play a game. At least, that’s the sorts of things we did before he went off to fight.”

Mycroft reached into his mind and found he had a very hard time grasping what Greg described. Though he very much wished he could.

“Father is too busy for such things much of the time. He… he is very important for the function of our nation and that leaves him with little chance for recreation or relaxation.”

“He talked to your mum.”

Mycroft winced sharply but appreciated in a perverse way Gregory stating things so plainly, though he was ashamed of himself for it.

“Yes, he did. Often when he phones, he speaks to Mummy only, though their conversations are not extended ones.”

“It’s good he phones your mum, because I know she misses him like my mum misses my dad but… it only takes a minute or two to say hello to you and ask what you’re doing and what adventures you’re having and things like that. It’s… it’s alright to be mad-sad about that. I’d be.”

Mycroft’s shoulders slumped because he despised appearing weak, but… it helped to have someone understand what he was feeling. Even if it was expressed in a somewhat baffling manner.

“I should not want for myself; I should be more accepting of the situation.”

“Why? You didn’t do anything wrong. Your dad, and you mum, decided to have you. You didn’t knock on the door and say ‘What ho, family! I’m here and a baby, so change my nappy and read me a story!”

Mycroft started to smile because, while that would never be him, he could easily see that as the scene when Sherlock was born. And, also, because Gregory had a point. Mummy and Father had brought two children into the world and… there had to be some reason for that, hadn’t there? They wanted children to love and nurture, as well as carry on the family name and responsibilities. It couldn’t be all the latter and none of the former, could it?

Perhaps the better question was It _shouldn’t_ be all the latter and none of the former, _should_ it?

“I staunchly maintain that I did not shout ‘What ho!’ when I was born.”

“We’ll ask your mum. She’ll probably remember. Anyway… I’m sorry your dad didn’t talk to you, today. It’s alright to feel bad about it. You shouldn’t feel extra bad because you feel bad to begin with.”

Oddly, just having someone say it was alright to feel bad, made Mycroft feel _less_ bad about the whole business. At least, less guilty about the way he felt.

“Thank you. I try not to take such things personally, however… I do not always succeed.”

“I don’t think anybody could.”

Mycroft hated to be lumped in with ‘anybody,’ on most occasions but, this one time, it failed to sting.

“Did you… how exactly did you reach my window?”

“I climbed! I think I’m part monkey.”

“You climbed from the ground?”

‘Yep. Not to boast, but I _do_ have strong arms. And toes.”

Mycroft had grave doubts he would be able to do that if it was to save all he owned from a terrible fire. Perhaps Gregory did have a monkey or two in his ancestry. It would explain a lot, actually.

“That was incredibly reckless.”

“Ok, but sometimes you have to do reckless things when it’s important.”

Mycroft looked at Greg and blinked a few times as he absorbed the words. Especially the final two.

“I… yes, I suppose that is true.”

“Do you want to play a game?”

It was an abrupt shift of topic but, surprisingly, Mycroft found that he did.

“That is an acceptable suggestion.”

“You choose what to play and I’ll go and ask for the biscuits Mrs. Turner said we could have and bring them back here.”

“That is a _stellar_ suggestion.”

“Right! I’ll run very fast so we don’t have to wait long before we eat them!”

Greg hopped off the bed and ran off at top speed, nearly colliding with the door whose opening didn’t quite match the speed at which he was trying to run through it, and disappeared, though his ‘What ho, you scurvy biscuits! Here I come to eat you!’ lingered in the air after his footsteps could no longer be heard.

Mycroft sat quietly a minute or two more, then slid off the bed, walked to the window and looked out a few moments before closing it and fastening the latch. It was a LONG way to the ground. Gregory was a lunatic, that much was certain, however… at what point did one begin to use the word ‘friend’ to describe a person of one’s acquaintance? He’d not had one before, so he had no idea of the protocols. Perhaps there was a book in the library to consult. Or he could ask Mrs. Hudson. She tended to have knowledge of such things.

Or… he could simply hold the word in his mind for now and wait for a suitable moment to use it aloud. Gregory was a kind soul and if he misapplied the term, he would be polite about revealing the error…


	11. Chapter 11

“I remain unconvinced.”

“Ok.”

“That was a rather unsubtle cue for you to provide additional argument to sway me to your cause.”

“Ummm… why?”

Mycroft sighed mightily and considered throwing something at Greg’s ridiculous head but the only thing he had on hand was sandwiches and reducing their sandwich supply was far too great a sacrifice for a brief surge of righteous satisfaction.

“So I support your position!”

“If you didn’t, I don’t think you’d be walking with me right now, so…”

Mycroft scowled and came perilously close to breaching his stance concerning sandwich hurling, but maintained his commitment to a filling lunch despite the temptation.

“If I did not, you would have no idea where to go.”

“You could have drawn me a map.”

“I…”

Yes, that was true. Or provided an existing map of the area with the destination indicated with a large red X. However, knowing Gregory, he would somehow read the blasted thing upside down and end his journey in the English Channel.

“… are you trained in map reading?”

“I…”

Ok, that was true. Knowing him, even with a map where the treasure was marked with a large red X, he’d probably read it upside down and end up in the English Channel!

“… no, but I’m sure I could fathom it out. We’re not going far, right?”

“Far enough for you to become irretrievably lost.”

“Ooh, that doesn’t sound good. But, you don’t have any man-eating tigers or escaped convicts larking about, though, so being lost for a bit isn’t the worst thing to have happen. You never know… I could find a lost city or haunted house or something and that would be loads of fun!”

“Such do not exist on our land.”

“Are you certain?”

“I am.”

“Have you ever gotten lost and just wandered about?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know?”

“Given the number of individuals employed by us or who are tenants on our lands, I believe someone, at some point, would have stumbled across a lost city or haunted house and reported it.”

“Maybe. Unless… they were mesmerized into forgetting.”

“Preposterous.”

“Think about it! Either the city’s court magician or the haunted house’s witch doesn’t want them to tell people so they put a hex on them or something. Makes sense to me.”

“Because you are an utter lunatic. Besides, by your argument, if you did the same, became lost and stumbled across some nonsensical city or ghost-ridden house, you would also be subject to the same hex or hypnotic trance and the end result would be no memory of the discovery, rending any fun gained from it nullified in full.”

“Oh. You’re right! That’s disappointing. I want to remember what I discover! And draw it and maybe go back and explore parts I haven’t seen yet. You own all of this – do something!”

“What? How could _I_ do anything?”

“You could order them not to hex me! What ho, hexers! You let Greg here be unhexed so he remembers his fun and can pop back now and again for a bit more. So I decree!”

“That is rather adamant.”

“It’s a decree. Isn’t that supposed to happen?”

“I suppose it is.”

“Hurray! I get to stay unhexed!”

“That does seem… wait. You mired me in your insanity!”

“I most certainly dd not! At least, I don’t think I did. Did I?”

“You did and the fact is undeniable.”

“Oops. Oh well, at least I won’t be in the insanity alone. Things are much more fun when we do them together, including going loony!”

Mycroft threw up his hands at Greg’s raucous maniacal laughter but couldn’t deny that he was (a) continuing to walk along beside the lunatic and (b) engaging in conversation that was beyond pointless, verging on delusional. And it _was_ rather entertaining.

“I refuse to go insane. However, I will grudgingly accept visiting you while you are locked away in a cage that Mummy places in the attic until your lunacy has abated.”

“Thanks! We can still play marbles and card games and all sorts of things if I’m in a cage. And listen to the wireless! Doesn’t sound so bad, to be honest. Though, I can’t run about and chase rabbits or climb trees or ride a bicycle. Do you think I’ll be insane for terribly long? I’ve got to stay fit, you know.”

Mycroft shook his head and wasn’t surprised that only Greg could find becoming a tragically-fated character in a gothic novel naught but a minor inconvenience.

“Perhaps you will be awarded periods to take some exercise.”

“Hurrah! I’ll get to have fun and build my insanity muscles. Speaking of, how much further are we walking?”

Too far, in Mycroft’s opinion, however Charles was tending to other matters and Edwards was being… obstinate, so being driven to their destination was removed as an option. The second choice, using bicycles, was preposterous on its face, given they only had adult-sized specimens and Gregory’s legs would not remotely approach the pedals, so that possibility quickly fell to ruin. Therefore… on they marched.

“Another half-mile, perhaps.”

“That’s all? I thought it was far.”

“It is.”

“Nah. It’s only far when your feet fall off.”

“Feet do not simply fall off, regardless the distance you walk.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes.”

“Oh… well, I’ve walked places where it felt as if they were about to fall off and I wasn’t certain how I was going to go home with only ankles to walk on. I think it would have been hard to do, actually. I’d probably fall over a lot.”

Mycroft reached into his pack and drew out two biscuits, one he shoved into Greg’s mouth to buy himself a moment of quiet. Fortunately, these biscuits were of the chewier variety, so Greg’s mouth was kept quite busy while they covered nearly all of the remaining distance. None of it on their ankles.

“There.”

Mycroft pointed ahead and Greg threw his arms up in victory, speeding ahead and jumping up and down happily when he reached the water’s edge.

“A lake! You really do have a lake!”

“It is not terribly enormous, but substantial enough to sustain a measure of fishing and a laudable assortment of wildlife.”

“And birds and fish and frogs?”

“Those are encompassed by the term wildlife. Wild as in not domesticated and life as in not rocks or clouds.”

Greg did a jig while Mycroft set down his pack then drew a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his brow and neck. It wasn’t precisely hot today, but walking for twelve leagues in this not-precisely-hot heat was more than sufficient to summon a sweat.

“This is going to be great! We’ll be like explorers in the Amazon.”

Ah, that explained the warmth.

“I shall be reading a book. You can do as you like.”

“Ok, but if you want to be an explorer with me, I’ll leave a trail you can follow to my explorer spot.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes since he had little urge to leave the shaded spot he’d chosen as their base camp. Here there was shade, a canteen of water, food, his book and a large cloth upon which to sit so the various insects and other soil dwellers could not stage an attack upon his person. Though, looking up at the tree providing his much-lauded shade, perhaps he should have had Gregory carry and erect a tent to forestall any form of aerial assault, also. However, hindsight did not change the present one whit.

“Very well, then, carry on.”

Greg snapped a salute and began rummaging in his own pack for his compass, binoculars, pocketknife, magnifying glass and pad and pencil. All of which Edwards had been happy to find for him so his exploring could be as successful as possible. This was going to be great! Mycroft said he hadn’t come here since… he actually couldn’t remember when, but he thought he’d been here at least once, but certainly not with an explorer extraordinaire!

Look at this, though… it was amazing! A whole lake and he could go where he liked because Mycroft’s family owned it so nobody would tell him off for being where he wasn’t allowed. And it was a proper lake, too. There were ducks and… birds that weren’t ducks but sort of looked like them and there had to be fish and there was loads of places for frogs to be lurking. Or monkeys. Or forgotten tribes guarding treasure and lost secrets. Ok… time to discover something new and exciting…

“I stepped in mud.”

“Already?”

“It was hidden.”

“What ho, Mr. Explorer! You discovered mud. Prepare to be knighted by the King for your amazing accomplishment!”

Greg started laughing because, really, Mycroft could mimic him better than anyone he’d ever known. And he knew a lot of people! At least twenty. Maybe more!

“I’m incredible!”

“And muddy. However, given the likelihood of you utterly despoiling your shoes in any case, I fail to see any real source of worry here.”

“Does that mean I’m going to get my shoes dirty anyway so best just trod on?”

“Yes.”

“I’m a genius! Once again, off I go to adventure!”

Shaking his head, Mycroft made certain Greg actually succeeded with taking ten mudless forward steps before going back to his reading. In truth, now that he was seated and had partaken of some water… it was a rather pleasant experience. The vista was a lovely one and he was not perspiring unduly. His book was engaging and Gregory would be kept occupied for hours, so he could enjoy said book to its fullest. All in all, not a poor way to spend his time.

“This stick looks like a pigeon!”

At least, once Gregory was out of earshot…

__________

This was decidedly a bracing book. A thrilling recounting of the Battle of Kadesh, which fit in well with his current taste for the lore of ancient Egypt, though it was somewhat lacking in large, colorful illustrations. Further, his lunch had been delicious for such a simple repast. Perhaps it was the atypical environment in which he ate that made the difference. Sitting here, watching the birds on the water… it was actually something he would consider doing again. And it had been astoundingly considerate of Gregory to keep himself entertained so that his own entertainments could proceed without interruption.

However… it _had_ been some time since he had last heard Gregory. The expected symphony of laughter, shrieks, shouts, yelps and What Ho!’s had been strangely absent for an extended period and that was… worrying? Was it proper to worry over a morsel of quiet? Was it not usually the other way around? However, given Gregory’s norm was cacophony and not-quiet, perhaps wrong way round was actually the proper orientation so this quiet _was_ of concern.

Should he seek him out? Gregory could be anywhere for miles and miles, given his propensity to run at the slightest whim, or sight of something worth petting, so finding him could be tremendously difficult. He had said he would leave a trail, though…

Setting down his book after carefully marking his place with his bookmark, Mycroft stood and looked a moment in the direction Greg had originally walked. Moving a few steps forward he closely scanned the ground for mud, both to avoid and to, hopefully, see footprint evidence to indicate Greg’s path. He didn’t catch sight of telltale footprints, but he did notice and continue to notice disturbances in the vegetation along the water as well as what he would swear was the occasional, intentionally broken branch of a shrubby plant. Of course, this could be a deer trail and he would soon happen upon a bemused example of the local fauna, but his instincts said he was not misconstruing the scene.

Walking further, still mindful of mud or trail indicators, Mycroft kept his ears at high alert for the slightest sound of revelry… or its opposite… emanating from the world around him. For a long while he heard nothing but the birds and wind rustling the vegetation but he eventually paused a moment to verify that, yes, he had heard something akin to a grunt. Followed by another.

“Gregory! Are you near?”

“Mycroft! Yes! Keep following the water until you see my signal, then turn left.”

Hoping whatever signal Greg had placed was still unmolested by animal activity, Mycroft continued along until he found a what he was looking for in the form of three sticks shaped into an arrow pointing left, as if the verbal directions were not sufficient for navigation. Walking straight along the arrow’s trajectory, he left the wooded patch near the water and found himself in one of the open fields where he could see Greg. Actually, he could see Greg’s bottom which was facing him as the other boy was on hands and knees, looking down at something.

“Gregory… whatever are you doing?”

“I found something!”

Hustling forward, Mycroft joined Greg and, after a moment, knelt down to peer at the object that had Greg’s attention.

“Oh dear.”

“I was very careful, like one of those archaeologist chaps, clearing away the dirt around it so I didn’t disturb things. That’s important.”

“Yes, it is. Whether this is an archaeological find or a criminal one, however, is the question.”

Both boys stared at the skull grinning up at them from the ground and each silently wished that the thing would groan out some information like in a truly scary story that would let them know who it was, how it got there and if they were now cursed.

“I’ve been trying to fathom out what to do about it.”

“We must notify the authorities.”

“That was my first thought, but then… well, you said it, didn’t you.”

“Did I? What did I say?”

“This _could_ be something for one of those explorers who open up hidden tombs and find treasure and mummies or… this could be murder.”

“Murder?”

“It’s a head.”

“A skull. A head has the remaining items attached.”

“Ok, it’s a skull, but… it’s not on the person what had it to start with so…”

Greg’s meaning began to infiltrate Mycroft’s brain where it did not meet with a courteous welcome.

“My family are not murderers!”

“I’m not saying they are! But… this wasn’t buried deep underground like it would be if it had been here for a thousand years. I saw it when I was climbing that tree, though I thought it might have been an interesting stone.”

“It could have been exposed by the action of wind or rainwater or an animal. Besides… this is a very clean skull, in terms of adhering flesh or… whatnot. That argues for great age.”

“Couldn’t that wind or rainwater or animals help with that, though?”

Drat.

“Your point is valid, however… neither Mummy nor Father have reason to commit a beheading.”

“Mycroft… and I don’t want to be mean, so don’t think that, ok? How much do you know about them? Your dad, especially? I’m just trying to think like a policeman. They’re a suspicious lot and I’m a bit of an expert at that because… well, me and my mates sometimes, but not often!, have the constable ask what we’re up to and what we’ve got in our sacks or why Will is carrying a handbag, which he actually found in the park and thought it might be a nice gift for his mum since we couldn’t find anyone’s name in it, but the constable didn’t seems to believe us and took it which wasn’t fair since Will’s mum lost a nice gift for no reason whatsoever.”

Mycroft worked furiously to disentangle Greg’s actual point from the nonsense that encased it and found it, again, to be valid.

“Yes… the constabulary is most likely to take the view that a horrific crime has been committed and, given this is our property, someone is the household is the perpetrator. Setting aside the unacceptable disruption to household efficiency, the scandal would be extreme. Father might be removed from his position! And Mummy… she would see her social connections severed and could easily fall into malaise. I cannot permit it.”

“I like your Mum. I don’t want to see her malaised! Whatever that is. It’s not good, though, I know that much. What are we going to do? Leave it here?”

“No. If it is an ancient skull, it is of academic and historical importance and we cannot risk it being further compromised. If it is the skull of a person foully murdered, then… they deserve a measure of justice, though it cannot harm my parents in any manner. We must investigate this. Ourselves.”

“Us? We’re not the police.”

“Which is fortunate since the local police representatives are not good examples of gentlemen of intellect. They would likely clap Mummy in irons and parade her through the village to the jail, if not to the gallows straightaway.”

“NO!”

“That is why we must take charge of this and learn the truth. Then we can decide what further steps are prudent. Come, let us finish the excavation.”

“And be very careful because this is evidence and that’s important to not change in the slightest.”

“Very true. We shall also look in the immediate vicinity for more.”

“I did walk about looking for the rest of this chap, but there weren’t any more bones sticking up from the ground. We could come back with spades, though, and dig some holes to see what we find.”

“If they are not immediately visible, then I doubt they will be further disturbed by an extra few days of rest. Once we have learned all we can from this skull we can return to broaden the scope of our inquiry.”

“That sounded very proper and official.”

“Thank you.”

“Not really like a constable, though.”

“No?”

“No. That’s more like one of the government blokes you hear on the wireless. A constable is more like ‘ What ho there, Mr. Skull! You come along quietly now or it’s going to go hard for you. Miserable layabout lying there in the dirt when my supper is waiting. Dust yourself off and start walking or I’ll have a chat with your Mrs. and she’ll see you sleeping in the bathtub for a fortnight!’ ”

“That was… rather detailed.”

“Like that? I can’t say it’s word for word, because it happened a long time ago… easily a year… but when Stuart’s dad was late one night, Stu’s mum sent us to find him and he was at the pub and there was… he swears he didn’t start it but there was a lot of fighting going on inside… and out… and Constable Purdy gave him the what for when it was done then told us to make sure he didn’t fall into a gutter and drown on the way home because it’d been raining and Mr. Campbell was fairy tottery on his feet so it was actually possible.”

“I see. Very well, I shall assume a more supervisory role as would a concerned government official and you may take the role of the constable at the scene.”

“Yes! I get to be a constable! Alright, alright… what’s this then? Seems to be a skull. Rotten luck there, Mr. Skull being dead and covered in dirt and grass and bugs. Not to worry, we’ll see you sorted soon enough.”

Greg gave the skull a sympathetic pat, then continued on using his fingers to delicately move away said dirt, grass and bugs so Mr. Skull could be removed from its resting place. Of course, it was hard to work delicately when he was so excited! A mystery! Whether it was a murder or a mummy whose head had somehow rolled out of its tomb didn’t matter – it was a mystery and an adventure and the greatest thing ever. As long as it didn’t mean Mycroft’s parents were murderers. That would be terrible! He was going to keep his fingers crossed that wasn’t the case and wish very, very, very hard, too. Actually, he’d just do the wishing part now because it was difficult to do delicate digging when all your fingers were tightly crossed against the possibility of having had breakfast this morning with a murderer wearing a fetching green dress…


	12. Chapter 12

Mycroft peeking out from around the corner. Greg peeking out behind him. Both peekers starting to creep into the house then quickly shifting to an ‘oh no nothing to see here not at all whyever would you think that’ walk. If there was anything more obvious that small boys trying their hardest to be hide something, Mrs. Hudson had never stumbled across it in her long and festive life.

“And how was your day, boys?”

Oh yes, please do shriek with surprise, then clutch that sack Greg’s explorer tools were packed into like it was your personal supply of leprechaun’s gold.

“Ah… Ah! Mrs. Hudson. Our day was exceedingly pleasant. Much to do, you know.”

“Pleasant stuff!”

“Very.”

The sack wasn’t rustling or making noise, so it probably wasn’t an animal they were trying to sneak in…

“Good. I’m happy to hear it. Nice day like this should bring pleasant things to those willing to set out to enjoy them. Anything… special happen?”

The perfectly in-unison NO! shouted at a volume guaranteed to wake the dead was nothing less that she expected, but it was heartwarming to see the two so committed to walking the same path, wherever horrible and messy it may lead.

“Shame that, but sometimes calm and ordinary is just the ticket. Do you… need any help with… anything whatsoever?”

Two heads furiously shaking no. This was a future headache in the making, but no good would come of trying to lessen the impact. Best let them do their worst and see how much they could be made to sort out on their own once the dust settled.

“Alright, then I’ll tend to my own affairs. See those hands washed before you visit the kitchen or Mrs. Turner will put a spoon across your heads.”

After a long look at both the inevitable culprits of some loony scheme, Mrs. Hudson slowly walked away, mostly because neither was going to move until she was fully out of sight and it was grand to let the little buggers stew in their juices for as long as possible. Unsurprisingly, Greg’s stew came to a boil first.

“Think she noticed anything?”

“Hmmm… doubtful. We did not divulge a single piece of information to disclose the nature of our situation.”

“Good. I think we were fairly sneaky, too. So… where are we going to hide this?”

“First we must study it. There could be a bevy of clues as to the manner of death.”

“That’s important. Think we can find out who this and who done him in just by studying the bevy?”

“Perhaps. We require a place where we have some certainty we shall not be disturbed.”

“The library? We’ve spent a lot of time in there and nobody has bothered us once.”

“That is a distinct possibility. And it offers the benefit of work surfaces and research material at ready access. We must simply ensure that we do not leave any sign of our investigation.”

“Mrs. Hudson would be cross having to dust grave dirt off things, that’s true.”

“It is not a chance we can afford to take. She might inform Mrs. Turner of the additional work burden and… let me simply say they often collaborate on enacting vengeance for a grievance or slight.”

“What’s that mean?”

“If Mrs. Hudson scurrilously shares her tale, we might be required to feast on liver for dinner. AND have nothing afterwards but boiled cabbage custard.”

“NO! I’d… well, I think I’d die, actually. I’m fit and strong, but that would probably be enough to kill me.”

“Me, also. Now, shhhhhhh… we cannot attract further attention.”

“Right! Careless talk, we can’t have any of it or all sorts of horrible things can happen. I saw that on a big poster near the chemist, so I know it’s smart.”

“That is rather a lot of words for a poster.”

“I was, what’s it called… summarizing.”

“A summary is shorter than the actual text.”

“Oh. Then I was un-summarizing.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and sighed the sigh of those truly unsurprised by a turn of events but had held out the smallest of hopes that, this single time, the events would turn out other than expected.

“Come, we must not tarry.”

“That’s true. Someone could ask what we have in this sack and then we’d be in for it.”

“In for what?”

“It.”

“What is it?”

“You know.”

“I assure you I do not.”

Mrs. Hudson cleared her throat and stomped loudly, earning a squeak from the startled boys, who raced off from their hall haunting to wherever it was they were going to commit their mischief and mayhem. Now, she could see about getting the corridor properly dusted and not intrude on whatever nonsense they were perpetrating. Sometimes boys needed their little secrets. Of course, with those two, they probably wouldn’t stay little for long and, somehow, necessitate mobilizing the entire household to combat the demons they’d summoned or whatnot. However, she’d gladly battle a demon since little Mycroft actually seemed… happy. She’d worried the poor boy had soured beyond salvation but it seemed he just needed the right person to shove him into blooming.

Of course, combined, they were blooming into something not suitable for the faint of heart, but you didn’t work for the Holmes’s if you weren’t made of extremely stern stuff. And had access to strong and plentiful drink when your stern stuff began to waver…

__________

Greg extracted the skull and carefully placed it on the newspaper Mycroft had placed on one of the library tables so they could contain the dirt and grime that might give away their work.

“It’s still a skull.”

“What did you think it would be?”

“Dunno. Maybe, if it was magical, it would have turned into something. Like an ancient king or wizard.”

“Neither of which would have fit into your knapsack.”

“I don’t think magic and curses care about size.”

Mycroft’s natural instincts to trod heavily on inanity rose up, but then fell back into slumber since he had to admit that if magic and curses happened to exist, they likely wouldn’t feel encumbered by the inner dimensions of a knapsack. Or the sandwich-scented paper in which the object of their focus had been wrapped.

“Perhaps. However, let us concentrate on what we actually have before us and not the wizard to whom your fantasy believes it may have belonged.”

Putting their faces as near the skull as possible, both boys lingered a moment then pulled away, looking a bit worried. After sharing a knowing glance, Greg ran off at full speed and returned a few moments later with their gas masks on the off chance evil magic could somehow be inhaled by intrepid investigators. After several minutes Mycroft drew back and removed his gas mask, Greg quickly following suit.

“I can see little with my unassisted eyes. There, bring me the magnifying glass in that drawer.”

Greg hopped off his chair and ran to rummage in the heavy, handsomely carved desk that seemed to have come from a real library, to his eyes, and found the magnifier.

“This?”

“Yes.”

Greg put it to his eye and began looking at various items on the desk, feeling duly impressed by the result.

“This is amazing!”

“Which is why I want it for our work!”

“Oh! Right.”

Racing back, Greg handed the magnifying glass to Mycroft who debated redonning his gas mask but opted against it due to the fact that he was now feeling a bit self-conscious about believing he might uptake an evil spirit through an inhaled breath and that the utility of his lens would be markedly diminished by trying to gaze through both it and the mask’s goggles.

“Hmmmm… I believe this is the skull of an adult male.”

“Why?”

Not that Greg had thought any different because there was something about skulls that made you always assume they were male. Like dogs.

“Several indicators. I read a book on phrenology and they were listed most precisely.”

“Such as?”

“The configuration of the eye sockets, as well as jaw and forehead. Male skulls, also, are more heavily provided with bone.”

“You’ve seen a lady skull before?”

“Not… with this degree of proximity.”

“Then how do you know this chap is man bony?”

“I… you are right. There is a sense of solidity, of density, that seems to support my theory, however, I do not have concrete data for comparison.”

“That all sounds smart, so I wager you’re right. We should give him a name.”

“I suspect one exists. At least, for the individual for whom this was once a part.”

“But we don’t know it. Mr. Skull sounds a tad formal.”

“Then… Yorick?”

“Who’s that when he’s at home?”

“It is Shakespeare! From Hamlet.”

“That’s… a play, right?”

“Oh dear heavens… yes. One of Shakespeare’s masterpieces of tragedy.”

“Oooh, that’s sounds gloomy. And Yorick sounds foreign. Like a spy. We need something better. And less spy-ish.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Well… that chap Bill Shakespeare wrote the play, so… Billy.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why?”

“First, it is _William_ Shakespeare and…”

“My dad calls him Bill.”

“Your father likely does not possess a degree from university and, further, is not here to argue his case.”

“Nah. William is too chatting with the banker sort of thing.”

“What?”

“You have to be more posh and formal when you’re with the banker or he won’t give you money. My friend Daisy’s dad had to get money for some tools for his work and they were all racing about borrowing him a proper suit and reminding him not to act like he was meeting a mate for a drink at the pub. It was funny, actually, but must have worked because he had his new tools in a week or so.”

Mycroft recognized he had few, if any, peers his age however he felt quite certain that if he had a hundred, they would not, without exception, have some detailed narrative to attach to each of his points of communication like some people he might know. Who was now pretending the magnifying glass was a lolly.

“Do not lick that.”

“I’m not! See, no spit anywhere on the glass. So, what else can you see from Billy’s skull?”

“William!”

“Do I have to?”

“Yes. I feel, on this point, I must be adamant.”

“That means you really mean it, right?”

“It does.”

“I still say it’s snooty, but ok. What’s on with our mate William here who _may_ be man bony but is _certainly_ dead?”

Mycroft threw his hands into the air, but used the return swoop to snatch away the magnifying lens to continue his study.

“His dentition is poor.”

“Is that to do with hair?”

“Teeth.”

“Oh. Well, yeah. He’s not got most of them.”

“True, but those that remain are not in good condition.”

“That’s a lot of people, actually.”

“Also true, unfortunately. It may not be useful, most likely, for identification. However, no information should be ignored.”

“Maybe I should write this down.”

“Yes, that is a good idea. My memory is impeccable, but a written record of our work could be vital for a court trial.”

Greg quickly grabbed a pencil and paper from the same desk that held the magnifying lens and slowly began to write:

Willam

Man has bone

BAD TEETH (In large, capital letters. For emphasis.)

“What else?”

“He was an adult at death.”

 _Old_ was added to the list.

“And…”

Mycroft’s brain raced frantically through his storehouse of knowledge on skull characteristics and found it rather empty. It was not a particular field of interest so he had devoted little attention to it. However, that did not mean he was bereft of ideas.

“I do not think he was elderly. There is a… prominence, a definition to the features.”

“What’s that mean?”

“The elderly often seem… it is hard to articulate…”

Since he didn’t know the proper vocabulary and was suffering no small measure of embarrassment.

“… are you talking about the old people sometimes seem a bit sunk in on themselves?”

Was he? Yes, that was probably somewhat close to the mark.

“I believe so.”

“Hurray! Not the noses and ears, though. Mr. Porter who sells shoes is very old and he’s got more nose and ears than… well, than the rest of his face. And they’re hairy, which is a bit startling until you get used to it.”

“Given we cannot assess the status of hair on any part of this skull, nor the size of the ears or nose, for that matter, we shall have to rely on the original observation. The various facial features appear to discount advanced age.”

 _Not Mr Porter_ was added to the growing list of clues.

“I know of no techniques to establish how long it had lain in the ground but it does not seem significantly discolored or… blast! I have little information on whether insects or fungal types promote bone damage.”

“That’s alright, I don’t either. Does the skull seem mostly… good?”

“Define good.”

“Not broken.”

“Ah…”

Mycroft turned the skull over in his hands, bravely ignoring the grime transferring to his hands in the process, and studied it from all angles.

“I see no appreciable damage.”

“Then Will wasn’t likely killed by a knock on the head. Or been in a terrible fight just before he died.”

“Possibly. A brutal altercation might cause damage to the upper or lower jaw, possibly the eye socket or cranium. A nose or lip injury is more likely, though, along with various cuts and bruises. However, I believe we can rule out any truly savage assault as contributing to his death.”

 _Didnt die savagly_ went straight to the list.

“Can you tell if he’s English?”

“I… no, I do not think that is possible.”

“Shame. It seems as if he was from somewhere not English, like Ireland, people would remember him and if you asked about ‘What ho! Anyone likely murdered on your street?’ you’d get people remembering that Irish chap they’d not seen for a bit but not an English one because there’s nothing special about them and you trip over a score or more running out to the greengrocer for some potatoes.”

“I… I think I see your point…”

Which was somewhat terrifying.

“… but that avenue is not available to us. I fail to see any facial or cranial abnormalities, either, which might make this person a memorable one to his neighbors.”

 _Norml English Chap_ was carefully scribed on their growing list. Then scratched out because the English part was still in question.

“What else?”

The very question Mycroft was asking himself. There was little, now, to identify the victim, let alone uncover their identity.

“It… it is unlikely that a murderer would travel far to hide the remains of their victim. The chances of being discovered would grow the longer they were, say, transporting a body… or head… in the boot of their car or in a satchel while on the train.”

“Local person, then.”

Greg cut a pointed glance at Mycroft who waved him off with a snort because his parents were not murderers! Most likely.

“Not often were we in residence here before the war. Several weeks in summer and the occasional holiday, however, there would be little time or opportunity for Mummy or Father to find reason to perpetrate such a crime, let alone commit it and hide the victim’s remains.”

“Hmmmm….”

Mycroft frowned as Greg bent over his piece of paper and began writing.

“Gregory?”

“Wait. I need to think to write.”

Mycroft waited, albeit impatiently, for Greg to scribble down several words a distance down the page from their ongoing list.

“Ok… being mad, being done wrong, being loony, being evil… what other reasons do people commit murder?”

“Ah, I see. Money. It seems that is a powerful motivator.”

“Getting paid to murder people? I can see someone paying a lot for that, actually.”

“No! Or… that is entirely possible, however, I was referring to committing murder to gain money for yourself. An inheritance, some manner of business, that sort of thing.”

“Oh. I’ll add money to the list. What else?”

Anger, revenge, insanity, general villainy, money… the other possibilities that crossed Mycroft’s mind were subcategories of those already listed.

“Covetousness?”

“What’s that?”

“Wanting something belonging to another.”

“Like a new bicycle?”

“Grander, I suspect, but that is my general meaning.”

“I’ll write… you write that down.”

Mycroft quickly added covetousness the list while trying not to look at the other entries lest the atrocious spelling give him a case of linguistic vapors.

“I’m thinking, Mycroft, with our list here, we could ask questions. Chat with the people in the village and learn who might have one of our reasons for being a murderer and who might be the person they murdered.”

“Question suspects… or, rather, gather a list of suspects _to_ question. Yes, that seems prudent.”

“When do we start?”

“It seems unlikely the matter is a pressing one, given this skull cannot be of a recently deceased victim. There is no need to race out and begin this very instant.”

“We should practice.”

“What do you mean?”

“Asking questions! Can’t just walk up to some lady and ask ‘What ho, Mrs. Lady! You done any murders lately?’ I think we’d get told off for that.”

“Yes, I see your point. Subtlety and subterfuge are not amongst your portfolio of talents. Rehearsing our questioning might be an effective strategy for improving our chances of success.”

“There are a lot of people in this house, you know…”

“True. And a somewhat diverse assortment of temperaments. We could gauge responses and refine our technique through testing a broad assortment of subjects.”

“We can think of our questions today and start asking tomorrow.”

“That will also give us time to practice our intonation and facial expressions.”

“Ooh… didn’t think of that. We have to look serious, because it’s a murder, but if we look angry or mean people won’t want to talk to us and tell us to shove off with our murdery questions.”

“More paper, Gregory. And I, too, will require a pencil.”

Greg laughed and darted back to the desk to pull out every bit of paper it had and an assortment of pencils for their use. This was great! Planning to question murderers! That’s what proper policemen did. He’d memorize all the questions they wrote, too, and practice each one until he sounded the sort who wouldn’t take any nonsense from the likes of lying murderers. Now, how to get a photograph of Will there to take along and frighten the murderer into confessing. If _he’d_ murdered someone and had a photo of their skull shoved in his face, he’d confess. And probably start crying. Even _if_ the skull wasn’t particularly fierce and missing teeth like an old gent. Which Will wasn’t. They’d fathomed that out already. Which was good. Old gents tended to die a lot and not by murderers, so that wouldn’t confuse their very serious investigation and waste time they needed for serious questioning. And playing marbles.


	13. Chapter 13

“Might I ask, Mr. Suspect, if you’ve had a row with anyone of late?”

“PWAH!”

Lambie smacked Greg on the chin and Greg moaned obligingly for Sherlock’s satisfaction.

“I think it was that last ‘of late’ bit. Or that starting ‘might I ask’ part. Sounds a bit doddery and that may be alright for someone very old like Mrs. Hudson or Mrs. Turner, but not Edwards or that nice maid Penny what’s not much older than my cousin Susan. She’s fairly young, in case you didn’t know.”

Mycroft shook his head and consoled himself that Greg had time to practice his questioning and their list of initial interviewees did not own stuffed lambs.

“One must speak in a professional manner for one to be taken seriously.”

“I think that’s only true for people who have some of that professional already in their pocket and not for people like me who don’t and… well, it sounds a bit wrong when I try to say professional things and that’s a touch suspicious, especially when you’re asking questions about murders.”

Sherlock’s vehement ‘Pweeeeeeeeee!’ stood in support of Greg’s treatise.

“There is a modicum of truth in your idea.”

“Wow! That’s a lot!”

“No. Rather the opposite.”

“Oh. That’s disappointing.”

“In any case, an illiterate vagabond, or you, _might_ prompt questions concerning language, however, this is why we must ensure you are suitably dressed and presented.”

Sherlock’s long string of babbled words sounded very much to Greg like a thorough and insightful rebuttal of Mycroft’s basic premise that nicely combed hair was going to make a difference in selling him as a professional question asker.

“Sherlock’s right. I’m doing this my own way.”

“Your way is the very definition of suspicious. What ho, Mr. Suspect! Your arms look tired. Been carrying any dead bodies today?”

“I’m writing that down.”

“No! No, you will not. Though… it would not be entirely inappropriate, or suspicious to, perhaps, make inquiries about who might have been carrying large, heavy parcels, especially if it was not part of their normal work or daily routine.”

“That’s a lot of words to say what I said with less.”

A chortling baby was now on Mycroft’s list of life’s most irritating sounds.

“Your so-called way was most accusatory. We must avoid that to prevent alerting the perpetrator to our intentions.”

“You’re right! Didn’t think of that. I wager being asked about carrying bodies might give away what we’re doing. Can I write _that_ down?”

“Yes. Do write down that we cannot divulge our intentions.”

 _Dont give away plan_ went on the ever-growing list of interrogation preparedness.

“Let me think… how’s this? What ho, Mr. Suspect! Anybody you know carrying something heavy what shouldn’t be? Especially after it’s dark out and looking sneaky while doing it? Just curious. None of those intentions or anything hanging about.”

Mycroft threw up his hands while Greg grinned in triumph and Sherlock squealed and kicked his feet in support of one of the two, though it was unclear which one had earned his approval.

“You require a great deal more practice. Failing that, we shall carefully craft your list of targets to include only the most gullible or dimwitted.”

“Bet that’s still loads.”

“Yes, that is surely the case. However, they may fall prey to your rather obvious questions and still provide valuable information. I know, for instance, that Mummy is cordial with a number of women who are woefully chicken-like in both intellect and temperament and, importantly, people do not closely guard their tongues when conversing with these individuals due to their inability to fathom subtlety, insinuation or remember any appreciable amount of detail.”

“Old ladies think I’m cute. That’s sure to help, too.”

“The more distraction you offer, the likelier you will be to succeed, I suspect.”

“Thanks!”

“Now, it is my turn to practice.”

“But you’re already great at this.”

Mycroft preened a moment, then remembered preening was unseemly and stopped, immediately cutting eyes towards Sherlock who seemed to be favoring him with a knowing, mocking smile.

“I… yes, thank you. But one’s technique for anything always benefits from practice.”

“Ok. You practice and I’ll watch. I’ll probably learn even more than I’ve already learned.”

Sherlock’s loud giggling won him a stern glare from his brother but a few moments of Greg making lambie dance while he sang a nonsense song which was, in the baby’s opinion, an appropriate reward for his very astute critique of Mycroft’s acting skills.

“On whom do you suggest, Gregory, we first test our skills?”

“Ummmm… I don’t know. I’m a bit worried about Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Turner since, first, they’re smart and old, so they’ve seen lots of sneakiness and may know what we’re on about since we’re not terribly practiced yet.”

“That is true, though one could argue a harsh test at the onset better allows one to refine one’s technique.”

“Who’s one?”

“We are.”

“We’re two. Three if you count Sherlock.”

Easier initial targets were certainly required, especially for Gregory.

“Who, then, do you offer as an alternative?”

“Ummmmm…. Edwards? He’s not as old and doesn’t have that look in his eye like your ear will get a tug if you’re up to mischief.”

“That is… not the worst suggestion. And he is often distracted by matters of work so he might not notice any technical missteps on our part. Very well, we will begin with him.”

“When?”

“Let us practice awhile longer then we shall commence.”

“Hear that, Sherlock? We’ll be commencing. That’s exciting!”

Sherlock squealed happily and plopped onto his back to wave his legs in the air which made Mycroft and Greg both experience some distressing flashbacks to the most dangerous adventure of their lives so far.

“Edwards generally enjoys a small respite in… two hours. We should be prepared to begin at that point.”

“That’s a lot of time – we should be great by then.”

Sherlock’s verdict was a cross between a burp and a wet, tongue-involved sigh which did not fill Greg with confidence the baby was on board with his assessment. That was ok, though, because _he_ was confident and that’s what counted. And, if they made a few little mistakes, that was fine because nobody knew why they were asking murder questions and they’d still be able to be sneakier, just in more sneaky way because they’d practiced and learned from their mistakes. That was important, too. His teacher told him that very thing so he was somewhat of an expert on the topic…

__________

“Are you sure?”

‘Yes.”

“Double sure?”

“Quite.”

“Ok, then. If you want me to have all the fun…”

Greg grinned widely and checked one last time that his clothes were tidy and he hadn’t mussed them without realizing it. Which happened more often than a body would think! Then it was the handful of confident steps towards Edwards’s office and a crisp knock on the heavy door.

Which stayed closed.

“What do I do now?”

“Try again!”

Greg knocked again, harder this time and waited a moment before putting his ear to the door to listen for sounds inside. Nothing. That was strange, since Mycroft said this was when Edwards had a nice cuppa and put his feet on his desk like a normal chap who needed a bit of a break. But… oh no. What if… Edwards _couldn’t_ answer the door. There was a foul murderer lurking about and he might have snuck in and lopped off Edwards’s head just like Billy and Edwards was in there right now in two pieces. Or one! Maybe the murderer stole the head! That’s what he did with Billy and it might just be a body in there with no head and if you don’t have a head you can’t shout for the person knocking to come in! Edwards was dead!

“Might I help you?”

“It’s the murderer!”

Greg ran full speed back towards Mycroft who was holding his head in his hands while Greg hid behind him and Edwards sipped his tea watching them both with not nearly as much surprise as would be expected unless one had met the boys in question.

“Are you two having a bit of a lark?”

Mycroft quickly slapped his hand over Greg’s mouth because no matter what was poised to come racing out of it, the result would rain disaster upon their heads.

“We… we are…”

Greg shook off Mycroft’s hand because (a) it was making his face hot and (b) he had an idea. A good one!

“We were listening to the wireless and it was a murder mystery!”

That was not the disaster Mycroft expected. Not a single sea boiled, sky fell or plague of locusts infested the crops.

“Yes! Yes… and Gregory… he has a terribly impressionable imagination. Ha ha! Yes, what a laugh we can all have at such a thing…”

Edwards was mostly certain there would be no unhappy surprises when he opened his office door, but still opened it slowly and with a quick peek inside before stepping across the threshold.

“Very well. Then, if there is nothing else…”

When taking one’s leave, it shouldn’t be required to wait for a hurried and hushed conversation to finish so that the leaving could occur without further knocking on one’s door.

“We’ve got some questions to ask you, sir.”

Mycroft smiled a watery smile at Greg’s words but, at least, it sounded very much like a detective in a murder mystery story on the wireless, so their cover story was still very much intact.

“Oh. Well, then, please come in.”

Greg marched into the office, with Mycroft somewhat reluctantly following along since it hadn’t been the plan to question their suspects as a team but he was nothing if not adaptable.

“Have a seat, gentlemen. Might I offer you something to drink?”

“What do you have?”

Edwards glanced over to the small sideboard with its decanter of excellent whisky and bottle of brandy and realized he needed more experience entertaining children.

“Whatever the kitchen has to offer. I can collect it for you.”

Greg looked over at Mycroft who thought a moment, then shook his head since it would likely be best to keep their suspect fully in their sight during questioning.

“Not now, thanks. So, Mr. Edwards, you done any…”

Mycroft loudly cleared his throat and glared disbelievingly at Greg who looked back with a complete lack of understanding until his brain cleared its own throat and played for him the film footage of the projected trajectory of his statement and how, just perhaps, it might alert an actual murderer to the intent behind their visit.

“Got it! Ok, so… ummmmm… there’s… lots of people in this house.”

“That there are, Master Gregory.”

“Any… fewer… now than there had been?”

“Several.”

Greg and Mycroft both gasped and wriggled a bit forward to sit at the edge of their seats.

“Any adult chaps no matter if they’re English or not?”

“Let me think… would you include tenants and temporary help in that question?”

“I don’t know. Mycroft?”

“Yes, we would.”

“There you go, yes. So…”

“It is difficult to answer for temporary staff, those who were present only to facilitate our taking up residence full time here but we did lose two tenants early on. They, I believe, are now in the military.”

Greg and Mycroft shared another look, this one confirming that the information wasn’t terribly helpful for their cause. Back they wriggled in their chairs to indicate their dissatisfaction.

“You seen anyone carrying anything heavy out of the house? Probably at night when they thought everyone else was asleep? You’re the warden so you’d likely notice something like that.”

“Possibly, though I am not awake at all hours.”

“Right… true. So, did you?”

“I cannot say anything of the sort comes to mind.”

“What about fights?”

“I certainly haven’t witnessed any evidence of fisticuffs under this roof.”

“What about not under it?”

“I also have not witnessed an altercation on the grounds. Though I have seen evidence of such in the village.”

The edge of their seats was once again graced by a pair of youthful bums.

“Really? Who?”

“You two.”

The backwards wriggle again commenced.

“It’s not us.”

“Who isn’t you?”

“Ummmmm…. nobody. Anyone been rotten and made someone jealous?”

“Not that I am aware, however, I am not terribly privy to the household gossip on that score.”

“I have to say, Mr. Edwards, you’re not very helpful.”

“I apologize.”

“Thanks! What about wanting a bicycle someone else has?”

Mycroft coughed loudly to remind Greg of something rather important.

“Or grander than a bicycle! Because they’re cravatous.”

“Covetous!”

“What Mycroft said.”

“I… I haven’t noticed any particular indicators of envy, if that is your meaning?”

Greg looked over at Mycroft, who nodded and filed away Edwards’s answer in the growing folder of lack of information they were gaining. Which, in itself, might be considered suspicious. Edwards was a busybody, despite his lackluster protestations. Could he be hiding something? That was not a thing they had considered. What if the murdered had an accomplice who, which now seemed most obvious, took steps to conceal vital information from their investigation? They were unprepared for that eventuality. However, there was nothing for it now but press on…

“Yeah, that’s it. Anyone gone loony?”

“Oh my… let me think. Genuinely insane, I would say no. Some individuals, however, have gotten a tad silly due to an excess of drink.”

That did spark an idea in Mycroft’s mind. They had, in no manner, considered murder most foul facilitated by drunkenness. There were several murderers of whom he had read who had terrible tempers when taken by inebriation. This could be obfuscation on Edward’s part, though. Providing an alternative motive to turn attention away from his partner in crime.

“I was with my dad at the pub once and someone took off all their clothes and sang a song about being on holiday. That was _very_ silly and I laughed until a few of his mates got him into his trousers, at least, and with another pint in his hands. Actually, I still laughed because he kept singing to his pint like it was a person. Dad laughed, too, because it really was funny.”

Edwards kept a serious look on his face because there was no telling what was on these exceedingly loony boys’ minds though it was easily as amusing as some half-naked fellow singing into his beer.

“Truly an entertaining experience. Any further questions for me?”

“Hmmmm…. oh! Anyone you notice being particularly evil?”

“ _Particularly_ evil? No.”

Mycroft caught the inflection and a glint rose in his eyes.

“Perhaps their evil is the norm, though not all might notice.”

“That, I would say, Master Mycroft, describes a great number of the staff. We are rather a hard-bitten lot, that quality being somewhat required for Holmes service.”

Drat. That was true. Mummy and Father had no use for sweetly-smiling simperers.

“Point taken.”

“Anything else?”

Mycroft and Greg shared another look that expressed their frustration at Edward’s lack of either revealing he was the murderer or offering specific clues as to who might have committed the deed. It was horribly unsporting, to say the least.

“Ummmm…”

Greg started squirming in his chair because he didn’t have any more questions but felt he really should since they hadn’t learned anything useful and that was important when you were investigating a murder.

“… seen any bodies lying about without their heads?”

Mycroft threw up his hands and huffed out a loud breath of exasperated air.

“Nnnnnnn… no. I’m most certain that is not a thing upon which I have laid eyes. Might I inquire…”

“Nope! Not allowed, sorry. Ok, ummm… Mycroft should we leave now?”

This was not the sophisticated, subtle interrogation Mycroft had envisioned, but it had been a productive one, if only for prudent tips on refining their technique going forward.

“I believe so. Carry on, Edwards.”

Mycroft hopped off his chair and motioned for Greg to join him, the two strolling out of the room as casually as possible while Edwards held back a laugh. Those two had some scheme going and it wouldn’t be amiss to start a bit of wagering going on what it might be. The more ridiculous the guess the likelier it was to be close to the mark. Fortunately, he had a spectacularly ridiculous imagination…

__________

Greg and Mycroft looked back at Edwards’s door and exhaled long breaths of relief. For what reason they weren’t certain, but it seemed appropriate at the moment.

“What do we do now?”

“Let us return to the library. I require a quiet place to think.”

“Ok. I’m going to talk to Billy but I’ll be very quiet about it.”

“William!”

“I don’t think he’s one for being formal. Can’t even wear a hat! Probably slip off his head what with it being so smooth.”

Narrowing his eyes in rebuke, Mycroft began marching towards the library where there was (a) quiet and (b) William, carefully stowed in one of the lower cabinets he was most certain hadn’t been opened by anyone’s hands but his in a decade.

Though someone had opened the _library_ door. And while they were interrogating Edwards.

“Maybe your mum wanted a book.”

“Perhaps… though Mummy tends to keep books to her reading taste in a case in her bedroom. More likely you did not properly close the door.”

“I know how to close a door! Though, I do admit, I don’t close many that fancy. Besides, unless they’re still in there your quiet isn’t going to suffer. Come on…”

Greg barreled through the door with a hearty What ho! which he felt was tragically wasted when there was nobody inside the library to hear it. It’d been a good one, too!

“You should put some more comfortable chairs in here, Mycroft. Then we could read all day and have a nap in our chair when we needed one, too.”

“A library is a place of study, not sleep.”

“Well, I don’t know about that but…”

“Yes?”

Mycroft frowned when Greg didn’t answer but found his eyes following the path of Greg’s to their accursed destination.

“The cupboard.”

“Billy’s flat!”

“The door is open.”

Creeping slowly towards the open cupboard, the two finally reached it and hesitantly peered inside.

“Oh no.”

“Dear me.”

Lambie. Only lambie.

“I think we have a problem, Mycroft.”

“And his name is Sherlock.”

Two heads turned towards each other and nodded to seal a solemn pact. The nature of the pact was both unknown and irrelevant. All that mattered was that they agreed and would confront their nemesis as a unit. Their unit was small, but it was mighty. It defeated the Green Poo of Death and would emerge victorious here. If possible, the stakes were even higher. Only _their_ fate was on the line then but, now, they had the sacred duty of bringing a murderer to justice. And no one, not even a wily baby, would stand in their way…


	14. Chapter 14

“He’s not here.”

Mycroft huffed loudly at Greg’s statement of the obvious though, to be fair, the frustration of finding the nursery empty was worth some form of acknowledgement.

“Clearly. The question is to where he has gone.”

Greg poked about in hopes that Sherlock had left the skull in there with his other toys but wasn’t surprised the baby hadn’t made things that easy on them. Returning to the hallway, both boys breathed a sigh at Sherlock’s further lack of sportsmanship by not being on the fine Oriental carpet runner stretching in front of the door, holding the skull in his lap.

“Does he have any spots he likes to play?”

“I… I do not know of any in particular besides the nursery.”

Though he had noticed both the nursery maid and Mummy scurrying about, at times, with a somewhat worried look on their face. Unfortunately, they could not make inquiries lest they be asked the reason they were seeking Sherlock or, worse, have the staff begin a hunt for the villain and discover that which could not yet be discovered.

“Then we have to think like a baby.”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know. Think… baby thoughts.”

“That was not edifying.”

“What?”

“You made no sense.”

“Oh! Baby thoughts – we used to be expert at them, didn’t we, so it shouldn’t be too hard to think like that again.”

Mycroft genuinely had no idea how to respond to that because it was fantastically nonsensical, yet its foundation premise was not entirely unsound, if impossible to achieve in practice.

“Given we cannot physically return our brains to their infant status, perhaps we might, instead, consider Sherlock’s standard patterns of behavior and extrapolate from there.”

“Are we expert at strapolating?”

“ _Ex_ trapolating. And yes. At least, I am. Now, let me think… Sherlock has taken something he clearly finds interesting.”

“Even more interesting than his lamb, which says a lot.”

“That argues he might wish both to find a place where he could play uninterrupted and have no concerns it would be taken from him.”

“That leaves… well, most of the world, actually.”

“True, in and of itself, that is not sufficient narrow the list of possible hiding places. However, we can begin the elimination process with those as evaluation criteria. Further, we might add that he will likely be located on his level of the house and inside the house.”

“Why?”

“Sherlock cannot yet walk and becomes frustrated easily. Climbing stairs would quickly irritate or bore him and, therefore, preclude his changing levels. And the exterior doors are kept closed, so he cannot fully exit the house.”

“I closed the library door and he got in there.”

“You _think_ you closed it. It is probable the latch did not fully engage, so it opened at his push.”

“Maybe. Or maybe he knows how to open doors.”

“He cannot reach the knob.”

“Sherlock’s smart.”

“That does not alter his height.”

“No, but it alters his… ummmmm… use of height.”

“That… very well, I will concede the infintis…”

Mycroft noticed Greg wasn’t looking at him and followed his eyes to the vista of Sherlock’s stuffed bear sitting in a squashed flower arrangement atop a bureau at the corridor’s end.

“That… that is impossible.”

“I think you’re wrong.”

“Well… yes, but… I… blast! How did that damnable baby do that?”

Greg dropped onto the floor and began crawling, then dropped lower so he was more at Sherlock’s level and started pulling himself across the rug, gradually making his way along until he could study the bureau from the bottom up.

“He climbed.”

“You needed to wriggle along the rug to determine that?”

“No, but it was more fun that way. Besides, it showed me a baby could move along quickly and quietly, then showed me this…”

Greg reached around to the side of the bureau and extracted one baby sock, the second being under the bureau itself.

“Climbing is a lot easier if you don’t have on socks. I climb a lot, so I’m rather an expert on it, which I do admit I’m not with baby thinking.”

“Sherlock… I concede his resourcefulness. That does complicate matters.”

“I’ll keep looking up in case he’s on top of a bookcase or something.”

“That might be a bit of an overestimation of his abilities, but I suspect that we must keep our attention focused on a zone higher than floor level. We should commence.”

“How?”

“I shall take this side of the corridor and you shall take the other. We will inspect each room, then continue to other areas of the house.”

“Ok…”

“Gregory…”

“Yeah?”

“Stop slithering like a snake.”

“Do I have to?”

“Yes.”

Greg made a discontented noise, then laughed and rolled onto his back and used his heels to propel himself over the rug while Mycroft stood staring with a resignation he was coming to realize was part of his permanent emotional portmanteau now that Greg was in the house.

It did look fun, though…

__________

“Did you find him?”

“Do you see him?”

“No but, at this point, I’m willing to believe Sherlock can turn himself invisible.”

Mycroft threw up his hands and pointedly ignored the fact that his brain entertained, for the briefest instant, the possibility of that occurring.

“Ridiculous. I believe we can, however, declare this area cleared. We will now move to the next.”

“Which one is that?”

“Given we can exclude the library from our search…”

“Why?”

“Pardon?”

“We didn’t actually search it.”

Mycroft’s mouth opened then closed with a snap.

“True. It cannot be excluded out of hand. In any case, there are several other rooms nearby that can be searched, also. We shall go there next.”

The march towards the library went smoothly except for the moment they both jumped behind a display pillar supporting a bust of Plato in a vain attempt to hide from one of the maids who passed by in front of them. And who, wisely, ignored the situation completely.

“You do the library, Mycroft. I’ll get distracted with all the books, but you’ve read them all and won’t.”

“I take your point. Very well, you begin with those rooms and I will search the library.”

Greg hopped to the nearest door, a small storage closet and began to check everywhere from the ceiling to floor for either Sherlock or Billy. Finding nothing, he moved to the next room, which seemed to be a small, disused study. Nothing. The next room was not one Greg could easily identify since it was nice, had chairs but not much else, including Sherlock or Billy.

“Find anything, Mycroft?”

“No. There was a decided lack of either Sherlock or our evidence.”

“I found a lack of evidence, too. Next?”

“The… conservatory. Mummy frequents it at various times during the day, but usually earlier, so there is a chance he may have gone there and not yet been discovered. Sherlock does enjoy that space. Mummy often brings him in to play in a pen while she works with her plants.”

Walking as unsuspiciously as they could, the two quickly made their way to the conservatory where…

“Mummy. You are here.”

“Very good, Mycroft. I am happy to hear we may dispense with a vision examination for you this year.”

“Amusing.”

“Ma’am, have you seen Sh…”

Greg’s ‘whoof’ was audible, as was the backhand smack Mycroft gave his abdomen.

“Mummy, have you noticed anything unusual in here today?”

Besides two boys behaving suspiciously and one brutalizing the other?

“No.”

“Have you looked hard?”

Mycroft scowled at Greg who was rubbing his midsection more to make a point than to ease any of the nonexistent pain.

“Is there a reason I should do that, Gregory?”

“Well… maybe?”

Mycroft sadly shook his head but his mother simply smiled at Greg who smiled back brightly before remembering that he might be smiling at a murderess, which turned his grin a bit manic.

“I admit that I have not. Would you care to do it?”

“Yes! Come on, Mycroft. I’ll take this side and you take that one.”

Mycroft divided his head shaking between Greg and his mother, who was simply smiling at him with more than a seemly amount of amusement, to his mind, and began looking through the rather busy space for the skull, since it was highly doubtful Sherlock could successfully hide in here, given his adoration of attention. It was also unlikely that he would have hidden the skull in a plant pot since he certainly would not have cleaned the mess made by the soil being disturbed and there were no heaps of dirt to be seen. If William was not simply secreted behind something, he was unlikely to be in here.

It still took quite some time to fully check all possible nooks and crannies given the room’s size and abundance of plants, furnishings and decorative items to create said nooks and crannies. Mothers seemed to delight in filling spaces with this and that though, at least, this room was blessedly lacking in embarrassing photographs of himself, something Mummy, for some unfathomable reason, possessed in abundance. She had some in which he smiled, for pity’s sake. The shame was crippling…

“How goes your endeavor, boys?”

“Ummmm…. not so good. Mycroft?”

“I concur. Thank you, Mummy. Your lack of interruption has been most helpful.”

Mycroft motioned Greg to follow and the two strolled off, maintaining an air of cool casualness until they were out of sight, when they both pressed against the wall and looked back around the corner to watch for any suspicious activity. None was observed, which secretly relieved Mycroft and had Greg giving a short nod of satisfaction.

“She didn’t suspect a thing.”

“No, nor did she seem nervous or distracted by our presence.”

“That’s good, right?”

“It argues against the presence of a guilty conscience.”

“Unless she didn’t feel particularly guilty about the murder because the person was horrid. We just assume Billy was a friendly chap but he could have got murdered because he was rotten. It’s still a crime, but the murderer may be harder to spot because they’re not scared or sad or whatnot.”

“Perhaps. Regardless, we must continue on.”

“Yep. This is a BIG house and we have to… oh.”

“Gregory?”

“It’s not terribly long until dinner.”

“Oh. Yes, that does complicate matters.”

“Should we check the kitchen? Sherlock could have smelled something good and went there to have a bit for himself.”

“With a skull?”

“We don’t know he still has it. I can’t imagine it’s easy for a baby to crawl about with something like that, so I’d wager he put it somewhere if he was keeping on with his baby business. If not, then he’s playing with it and probably not in the kitchen because I think Mrs. Turner would have noticed that, even if she was very, very busy.”

“Then let us continue searching for him in hopes he _is_ with William. If not, convincing Sherlock to disclose his whereabouts shall be a fraught battle.”

“Maybe… let’s mix those ideas.”

“What?”

“Let’s keep looking for Sherlock and try to think like a baby who has to push along a skull. I’m not sure how, since we already know neither of us is an expert baby thinker, but we can try. We can also try to think of how we’d get Sherlock to show us where he hid Billy…”

“William!”

“… _William_ if he set him aside to keep safe and play with later.”

Very much what Mycroft was already planning, though it was always good to have matters clearly stated for the record.

“Then we begin. The kitchen first?”

“Yeah. We can get something to eat, too, which will be helpful. Brains need food and we’re using our brains a lot. I’m fairly certain I heard my brain’s stomach growl, actually. What ho, Greg! Feed me, you lazy boy. I’ve got important thinking to do!”

Mycroft contemplated educating Greg on the anatomy of the brain, which pointedly lacked a stomach, but decided it was a minor matter compared to the task at hand and could be postponed to a later date. And, also, he was hungry.

“Acceptable.”

Trooping off to the kitchen, the duo kept their eyes peeled for a baby, a skull or both and felt somewhat defeated when they stepped into Mrs. Turner’s domain and, again meeting with investigative defeat, begged for food, after which they decided to take their brain-stomachs away from the kitchen because chatting about their murder mystery couldn’t take place where any potential suspects might hear. It was not lost on either of them how deftly Mrs. Turner wielded a cleaver.

“This is good. Too bad Sherlock hadn’t crawled in there or he could have some meat and bread, too.”

“I doubt his few baby teeth could manage such a robust offering.”

“Billy couldn’t either, what with his bad teeth. I want my teeth to stay strong and healthy so I can eat whatever I want, even when I’m old.”

“I hope for the same. Dental hygiene is a point of pride, actually. In any case… where should we look now, do you think?”

“Try the nursery again? Maybe he went back there since that’s where the rest of his toys are. Or to have a nap. Then… go up a floor? Or outside. We already know he’s a bit good at doing what he’s not supposed to be able to do and doing it rather well.”

Given he had no better plan, Mycroft nodded and the two walked back to the nursery while finishing their brain food but weren’t surprised that Sherlock wasn’t in residence.

“Well, that was for naught. Upstairs?”

“That might… dear god…”

Greg followed Mycroft’s eyes to the window but didn’t see anything to prompt the invocation of a deity. Then he did.

“Why are flowers falling from the sky?”

“I can think of a very probable explanation.”

Both boys started running and sped up the stairs, Mycroft taking the lead to find the correct room situated directly above the nursery. Then, both boys came to a crashing halt since neither was entirely certain that racing towards a baby sitting on a table in front of an open window, happily throwing flowers from a large arrangement, their evidence sitting on his lap, would respond properly, or safely, if startled.

“How’d he get up here? And up there?”

Greg had whispered in what he hoped was too soft a sound for Sherlock to hear, but the baby’s loud squeal said he’d failed miserably.

“Irrelevant for the moment. We must retrieve him before he or William plummet to their deaths.”

“Billy’s already dead.”

“If he shatters, we potentially have lost vital clues for his identification. Consider it a death of relevance. Sherlock! We are now approaching you. Do not behave foolishly.”

Sherlock foolishly decided to try standing, wobbling precariously and dumping the skull from his lap so that it began bouncing out of the window, Sherlock threatening to follow.

In an instant Greg and Mycroft were in motion, Mycroft grabbing the baby and Greg diving for the skull, missing it by a hair and feeling his heart clench until a bounce had it collide with an uneven piece of stone outside the window so its trajectory changed and it rolled along the selfsame ledge Greg had used for his bit of reconnaissance on Mycroft. When it stopped, staring snaggle-toothed at Greg, the boy’s heart unclenched and he let out a loud whoofed breath of relief.

“Billy’s ok. How’s Sherlock?”

“Eating a flower. Give me that, you horrid baby!”

As Sherlock played keep away with his brother, Greg climbed on the table and crawled out of the window to retrieve their evidence.

“Master Gregory! Not this again!”

Greg looked down to see Charles staring up disbelievingly at his situation.

“Oh… hi! This is different! I’m just getting Bi… that.”

It suddenly occurred to Greg that Charles was looking up at both him and Billy, something that was not in the investigation’s favor.

“And just what _is_ that?”

“A… cabbage.”

Charles unslung his camera from his shoulder and took a series of photos.

“I can enlarge these, you know.”

Greg’s shocked gasp could probably be heard in the village so it certainly didn’t escape Charles’s notice.

“It… um…”

Peering out as surreptitiously as he could, Mycroft surveyed the scene and bore Sherlock smacking him on the head with a frazzled flower while he tried to come up with a plan.

“Perhaps you’d best bring that, and yourself, down here for a little chat?”

“Uh oh…”

Mycroft scowled but saw little option but to comply and hope to think of a convincing cover story on the walk to the garage.

“Agree to it, Gregory.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Ok. OK! I’m coming down with… my cabbage.”

Waggling his camera as a reminder, Charles strolled back the short distance to the garage to put away his camera and practice his stern glower. That little lunatic… two lunatics. It was wonderful! Just the way two small boys should be – trailed by trouble and, no doubt, already trying to concoct a cover story for whatever nonsense they’d been up to. Well, as long as it didn’t take them out on ledges, they could be as loony as they liked. It wouldn’t do to make more work for the groundskeeping staff since they’d be the ones having to clean up the mess if one of the silly buggers plummeted to their deaths.

__________

“What are we going to do?”

“I am unsure, however, I suggest we bring Sherlock with us as a distraction. His antics may purchase for us a measure of time to think more fully on our words.”

“Sounds smart. Got that, Sherlock? You distract like a proper champion because we saved your new friend and that deserves a spot of help, alright?”

“PWAH!”

“We need a book on baby language.”

“Or a less problematic baby.”

“Maybe he needs one of those leashes like they use for dogs. The fancy dogs have very nice ones which would make sense since you’re posh.”

As Mycroft ruminated on the delightful thought of a baby being led about with a fine leather leash… and muzzle… Greg tucked Billy under his arm, gave the forehead a polish with his sleeve then nodded his readiness for the next, and unexpected, stage of their mission. This was just like a real mystery! There were always shocking things happening and now they’d had three in one day! Sherlock steals the skull, nearly gets himself and Billy killed, and they get caught out by one of their suspects.

This detective work was loads of fun. And, to think, some people got to do it every day! Maybe that’s what he should do when he was old, be a proper detective and solve mysteries all day. Being old couldn’t be much fun, so why not do something to make it that way? That seemed the smart thing to do and now that he was Mycroft’s friend, he had to start being smart and not let down their side. Mycroft would surely scold him if it came to that and with all the words he knew, it would be a scolding even Mum would be proud of if she heard it…


	15. Chapter 15

Charles already had suspicions something shady was going on but having Greg stroll towards the garage whistling, with a flour sack tossed over his shoulder and Mycroft carrying a petal-lacking flower stem wielding Sherlock in his arms rather cemented the deal. Especially since Sherlock kept reaching for the flour sack and using his floppy floral weapon to smack his brother on the head when his free hand failed to grasp its prize.

“What ho! Not to be cheeky but we’ve got a baby and he’s going to need a fresh nappy soon, so let’s make this lickety split before disaster happens. Sound good?”

At least Master Mycroft had the decency to look as if he wanted to throttle Master Gregory, baby burdened or not.

“If I might offer a small suggestion… it is usually not prudent to be quite so obvious in one’s attempt to hide something if one wishes the something to remain hidden.”

“Who’s one?”

“Not this again... Charles, you have summoned us for a purpose, I presume. Kindly get on with it so we might continue on with the very important duties of our day.”

“Which are, Master Mycroft?”

“Uhhhhhh… the aforementioned tending to of infant Sherlock.”

“Who seems most focused upon the contents of Master Gregory’s sack.”

Blast! This had already become a farcical exercise. He had carefully laid out an opening strategy for allaying Charles’s suspicions and Gregory simply had to… be Gregory. To be fair, however, _he_ had introduced the idea of the deadly nappy problem as a mechanism to affect a quick escape if the situation grew too dire and knew very clearly the ease with which Gregory’s mind could muddle even the simplest of plans. And this plan had a mere fourteen sequential steps! Child’s play, really. Though one child, who might be carrying a skull-sized sack, had changed the rules of the game.

“It’s my cabbage!”

Greg holding the sack and jiggling it wasn’t the airtight proof of vegetable presence he may have imagined.

“I see. And why would young Sherlock have such an eager desire for a cabbage?”

“He… likes it.”

If Charles imagined himself very drunk and of a whimsical turn of mind, he… just perhaps… could envision a baby with a burning urge for a cruciferous vegetable. However, given the situation…

“Setting aside that rather dubious statement, explain why a cabbage he held dear would find itself on the ledge.”

“Babies do all sorts of things.”

Mycroft nodded sagely as if that explained the entirety of the universe’s great mysteries.

“Alright… Might I see the cabbage in question?”

“No, not really the best idea. Cabbages are shy.”

Mycroft’s sage nodding experienced a hiccough, but it picked up the rhythm again because in for a penny, in for a pound.

“I see...”

Charles thought a moment about his rather fertile sister who boasted in her brood of children young David, who was a good-hearted and decent boy too often dragged into his brothers’ nonsense and then pushed to the front of the pack to try to sell a cover story for their nefarious deeds. The hopeful yet slightly hesitant smile on Greg’s face right now was very reminiscent of David’s while giving his performance.

“… then I shall return the cabbage, without giving it a fright, to Mrs. Turner and…”

As he reached for the sack, Charles expected Greg to respond in some highly suspicious manner, but he didn’t expect Sherlock’s piercing wail and laudably high-velocity smack to the reaching hand with his flower stem.

“I think Sherlock’s not happy with his friend being peeked at. Maybe not doing it again would be a good idea.”

Mycroft made his gravest tut-tutting of faces while Sherlock let his wail diminish to a reproachful babble.

“Yes, that seems apparent.”

Perhaps a new tactic was required…

“Let us say, for point of argument, that your sack contains something other than a cabbage. That it was on the ledge is somewhat of a concern, especially given your retrieving of it without any regard for your own well-being. Can you tell me, at least, why you would do such a thing?”

“We didn’t want it to fall and smash.”

That was straightforward. But could still apply to a cabbage, so of little use in and of itself.

“Your concern over the welfare of a cabbage is admirable. We have access to an abundance of cabbages, however, which makes the fate of one somewhat insignificant when compared to your fate should you have fallen from that ledge.”

“That’s horrid, if you think about it. Why should one cabbage’s life matter more than the others?”

“PWAFFF!”

Charles suffered another swat from Sherlock’s weapon of choice for his insensitivity.

“I do apologize. However, Master Sherlock, you seem to have murdered a flower and feel completely unrepentant about it, so do cease your acts of brutality.”

That both boys cut eyes at each other after the word ‘murdered’ was not lost on Charles who definitely saw the need for stiff drink in his immediate future.

“Now, gentlemen, can we, at the very least, agree that clambering about on ledges is not something to be repeated in the future?”

Greg looked at Mycroft who scowled slightly because it truly was not predictable where their investigation might lead or what actions might need to be taken for its resolution.

“We can agree that such a course of action shall not be our first recourse.”

Pointing at Mycroft was all Greg could really do because he wasn’t terribly certain what any of that meant. Nor, frankly, did Charles, but it should serve to make the boys think twice before embarking on another harebrained scheme that involved Greg falling to an agonizing death.

“That’s something, I suppose. Is it… do you require any assistance with the status of your… cabbage? I am more than happy to help, if that is the case.”

Mycroft was scowling again because that _could_ be seen as an opening to question a suspect in their investigation was but he also feared giving away their game with Gregory holding their evidence within snatching distance.

“Thank you, but no. The… cabbage… we have well in hand. However, you could answer a few questions for us.”

“If I can.”

“You seen anybody without a h…”

Greg jumped back and avoided getting another belly smack, prompting peals of mocking laughter from the baby who was finding this highly acceptable entertainment.

“As Gregory was attempting to say, have you noticed anyone without a… reason to be on our grounds?”

“Hmmmm…. it is a difficult question to answer, for there are often people about, either on the manor grounds or further afield with the tenants whose purpose is not immediately clear. The ones near the house, of course, but I often spy individuals in various places seemingly going about an intended, albeit unknown, task. Have you… are you worried about someone you have seen? Has anyone bothered you in some manner?”

“Nobody bothers Mycroft while I’m around! I’d give them a punch they’d never forget!”

The bit of heat that rose on Mycroft’s cheeks was forcibly ignored both by Mycroft, who would never admit to it, and Charles, who knew acknowledging it would only make Mycroft blush even brighter. Sherlock, however, smacked his brother’s face in defiance of the convention of failing to mention things like blushes when in polite society.

“Most commendable, Master Gregory. Given that, then, I would say I have seen none who aroused my suspicion. Is that more along the lines of your inquiry?”

Mycroft didn’t like the word ‘inquiry,’ given it was far too descriptive of their actual mission, but he let it pass without visible reaction so as not to further alert their target.

“Yes, thank you. Are you aware of any… animosities, either in the household or in the surrounding area?”

“Or lunatics or those wanting money or a someone’s bicycle?”

The hissed shushing did nothing but make Greg give a ‘what?’ shrug and Sherlock throw himself back in Mycroft’s arms as if he was overcome by either Greg’s lack of subtlety or Mycroft stifling a potential answer to that very important question. It was terribly hard to know with a baby.

“I… again, if I am correctly interpreting the question, I cannot think of anyone leaping to mind with, perhaps… worrying intentions.”

“Are you sure? Murd….”

Greg caught Mycroft’s glare and quickly changed course.

“… _People_ can be very sneaky when they want to be.”

“Very true and I cannot say I have cause to observe closely the behavior of everyone living in this region so a particularly sneaky person might easily escape my notice.”

“That’s not helpful.”

“I do apologize.”

“That’s ok. Mr. Edwards wasn’t helpful either.”

“Dear me, that’s a lot of disappointment for one day. No wonder you worried so greatly for your… cabbage.”

“That’s true. If Billy had died, again, it would have been… oh.”

It was dastardly of Mycroft to pluck Sherlock’s flower stem from his distracted hand and toss it away, prompting a typhoonic outburst, but needs must when the devil drives.

“Lawks! Sherlock, what plagues you suddenly? Come Gregory, we must determine the source of dear Sherlock’s agitation. That is all, Charles. You have been most cooperative.”

Grabbing Greg by the collar, Mycroft dragged him out of the garage while Greg protested hotly, mostly about not getting proper credit for not calling their cabbage William which would have been a great deal more of a clue than Billy.

Watching the two bickering figures walk back towards the house, Charles let a few items of conversation click into place and felt a large grin stretch across his lips. The two adventurers had stumbled across a mystery, it seemed. It would be highly remiss of him not to keep a watchful eye on the two lest they stumble into something dire and despicable. Or, more likely, ridiculous and embarrassing, which would be more lethal to Master Mycroft than the former option. Fortunately, reconnaissance was an easy thing to do when one was involved with so many of the boys’ excursions. Further, the household busybody was _also_ being unhelpful and he was always happy for a bit of fun to brighten up his days. Which still may fail to be helpful to the boys, but one couldn’t have everything, now could one…


	16. Chapter 16

“Now what do we do?”

After the surprising success of their ruse with Charles, the boys had decided a bit of a think was in order and sought a place they could have that think undisturbed. Given Sherlock’s refusal to be separated from his new friend, drastic measures had to be taken.

“It is unutterably stuffy in here.”

“Isn’t that the way attics are supposed to be? This one is a bit disappointing, actually. No cobwebs or scary shadows or ghosts or anything. Not even a dead body in a trunk, which would have been useful because it might have been the other part of Billy.”

“That is actual reason you wanted to make this the location of our discussion, isn’t it?”

“Ummmm… I won’t say it wasn’t _a_ reason.”

Mycroft threw up his hands in exasperation. Climbing all those stairs with the weighty burden of Sherlock was not something he enjoyed doing for a lark.

“Delightful. For your information, the staff ensures that even this wretched space is kept tidy. Though, in truth, it is not their highest priority duty and only has their attention a few times a month, at most.”

“Then we should be safe from anyone overhearing our plans. Which are?”

“I have no idea!”

Greg turned eyes towards Sherlock as if the baby might offer some insights but was rewarded only with a bright smile and a smack to the face with the sock Greg had formerly returned to Sherlock’s tiny feet. Which had now been, again, removed to achieve the foot freedom Sherlock deemed necessary for his infant purposes.

“Well, I think one of them is how we’re going to get Billy…”

“William!”

“… William away from Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s tiny, unsocked feet were attached to tiny legs which were just not-tiny enough that they could do a commendable job of encircling the skull and protecting it from any villainous hands that might try to steal it away.

“Most assuredly. However, that concern is not as pressing as learning William’s fate. Ultimately the skull would be returned to William’s family and would feature heavily in any trial to prosecute the murderer, so Sherlock will not keep his new plaything, regardless. If hands other than ours, say of the local constable, is charged with wresting William from Sherlock’s grip, I, for one, will not be distressed.”

“Yeah, we could even be outdoors playing so we wouldn’t have to hear anything. I wager Sherlock would have a lot to say about the whole business and say it loudly, too.”

“That is rather an understatement. In any case, the issue is one for the future. More critically, we have an investigation to bring to a close.”

“You know…”

“Many things.”

“Yeah, but… you mentioned the constables. If anyone knows about murders or people going missing or a loony person running amok, that sort of thing, it’s a constable. Maybe we should ask them.”

“That would work against us, I feel. It would be a highly suspicious inquiry, to say the least.”

“True, but maybe we can think of a way to make it not as suspicious. Maybe it’s for… school! We have to write all sorts of things for school which are strange, like spelling.”

“Spelling is _not_ strange. No, I stand corrected, given I am speaking to you. However, that is not entirely a ludicrous idea. Father has worked assiduously to ensure schools maintain educational standards as best as possible during this damnable war and it is not unreas…”

“Wait, I thought your dad was in government. He’s a headmaster, too?”

“No, however, he takes seriously the educational expectations of our society and that they remain the highest in the civilized world.”

“Oh. I’m not sure my school is doing that, though, because my marks aren’t always good.”

“That you do not… no. This a path down which I shall not tread. Let us simply leave matters at the idea has merit. Mummy bade my tutor stay in London as I have no appreciable need for him in the short-term… or long-term for the man is an intellectual gnat… however, there is no reason to assume I have no educational program ongoing. Very well, we shall present ourselves to the constabulary and probe for information under the guise of a school assignment.”

“How?”

“I shall script a list of pertinent questions that are not, on face, likely to generate suspicion about our motives.”

“No, I mean how are we going to chat with the constables. It’s a ways to the village and I’m not sure _I_ even want to walk that far. And back again. With Sherlock and Billy. We’d need food. Water, too. That’s rather a lot.”

This was a complication Mycroft had failed to consider., something which vexed him mightily since he was particularly skilled at spotting complications before they manifested themselves.

“Yes…”

“Are you _certain_ you don’t have a bicycle, because we could put Sherlock and Billy and our food into the basket and ride into the village. It’d still be long ride, but it’s fairly flat from what I remember and it’d be faster than walking.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, but they stopped mid-roll because the basic premise of Greg’s statement was valid, though a bicycle was still out of the question. But, perhaps, that could be changed.

“We must find Edwards.”

“More questions?”

“No, that ground appears barren. However, he does have charge over my personal accounts.”

“What’s that mean?”

“We need money and he is who shall provide it for us.”

“Oh! Wait… why do we need money?”

“For…”

It was going to hurt to say this, but Mycroft reminded himself he was made of stern stuff.

“… we are purchasing a bicycle. Two, actually.”

Greg gasped loudly and fell backwards as if in a faint, which amused Sherlock so much he used Billy’s bald head as a little drum to beat a tattoo of approval.

“T…t…t… two bicycles?”

“I refuse to ride clinging onto you like some accursed monkey.”

“A cursed monkey! My dad read me a story about that once. Very scary stuff. There wasn’t a bicycle in it, though, unless I fell asleep and missed that bit. I sort of doubt it because my dad would have given me a nudge so I didn’t miss any of the good parts.”

“I am ignoring everything since last I spoke for sake of my sanity.”

“Well, alright, but it was you that started talking about monkeys.”

“Bicycles!”

“Monkeys on bicycles! This is getting better and better! What ho, Sherlock! We’re buying a monkey and teaching it to ride a bicycle. This is the best!”

Sherlock squealed and slapped Billy’s skull with excited rhythm.

“We are not getting a monkey!”

“Why not? They’re brilliant!”

Greg hopped up and began to make monkey noises, scratching under his arms and capering about the large attic, which had Sherlock erupting into peals of laughter and Mycroft silently glowering while contemplating a phone call to the nearest veterinarian for a dose of tranquilizer large enough to sedate a sizeable and highly irritating monkey.

“MUN MUN MUN MUN MUN!”

“That’s almost a real word! Mycroft – did you hear that? It was almost there. Sherlock’s done well, I’d say.”

Mycroft found his glower fading despite his best efforts to keep it blazing full force.

“That was rather close, wasn’t it?”

“We should find a gift for him when he says a whole word. Something fun.”

“Perhaps while we are in the village we can see what is on offer.”

“That’s a good idea. I had a thought, though.”

“Oh no…”

“It’s a good one! How are we going to get to the village to get our bicycles and monkeys and Sherlock’s gift if we can’t _get_ to the village to get our bicycles and monkeys and Sherlock’s gift?”

“That… yes, that is a conundrum.”

“Is that a type of monkey?”

“There are no monkeys!”

“What do you mean? There are loads of them! Just look in the jungle.”

“I shall direct the Royal Mail to post you to the jungle and continue the investigation myself.”

“No! When I’m old and the war’s done I can go to the jungle on my own. We need to do solve our mystery and I can’t do detectoring on my own locked in some crate waiting to be posted to Africa. I need you! And not to be locked in a crate.”

“That is true. Very well, I shall save the money it would take for postal fees and use them for our transportation purchase. And, I suppose, we must first enlist either Edwards or Charles to provide our transport to _obtain_ our transport. Bother. That increases the odds our aims will be discovered and, thus, corrupt the integrity of our investigation.”

“But if they take us to the village, we’re already there so…”

Mycroft’s face froze for a moment at the realization of where Greg’s path of thought had led.

“Ah. Yes. The bicycles would not, then, be necessary.”

“Could we… just ask one of them to go buy them and bring them back here?”

“Hmmmm… it would take an exceptionally-convincing ruse for that to occur.”

“Can’t we just say we want bicycles so we can have a ride when we want one?”

When one was as intelligent as himself, one might, on occasion, overlook the most direct route to a solution.

“We could, I suppose. I am not entirely sure the degree to which they would believe that, however.”

“Why not? Who wouldn’t want a bicycle to ride?”

“Ummmmm…”

“You may not have wanted one _before_ you met me and learned how amazing they are, but it’s clear you know _now_ about the amazingness so it’s not suspicious at all. Can I have a blue one?”

“It is likely the level of choice is markedly low. We may… oh dear heavens. We may have to purchase… second hand.”

“That’s great! Those are the best. Someone’s already ridden it and if it was bad or broken, they would have gotten it fixed for us so we don’t have to. So, I can have a blue one?”

“If any are to be had, we shall have to make do with the available color choice. However… if there is a blue one, you may have it.”

“Yes! Sherlock, I’m getting a blue bicycle and I’ll take you and Billy for a nice ride.”

Sherlock throwing up his arms was very reminiscent of his brother’s now-traditional gesture, but it lacked the heavy huff of exasperation that made Mycroft’s all the more special.

“Hurrah! Let’s be at it, then. Think Mr. Edwards is in his office?”

“Likely.”

“He likes tea, right? We’ll bring him a nice hot one and something like pie. That’ll put him a good mood and not all suspicious when we ask for money and bicycles.”

“True. Edwards, like many adults, becomes rather more malleable when provided with refreshments. Very well, that shall be our first act. Where… dear me, Sherlock, but you are a sticky wicket.”

“He’s certainly sticky. I’ve had to wipe his face and hands a dozen times already.”

“Yes, but my thoughts were more towards where we are to situate him and William so that William is not discovered. I… I worry that separating the two will result in such a maelstrom of outrage that we will draw a substantial amount of unwanted attention.”

Sherlock babbling to and patting Billy reinforced Mycroft’s point rather definitively and, in truth, both older boys were actually glad to see Sherlock having a nice time with his skull. There was something about a happy, contented baby that made it hard not to be happy along with him, even if it did complicate their important investigation. And involved the skull of a tragic murder victim.

“Got it. Hmmmmm…. maybe we could…”

“What in heavens name are you boys doing up there?”

Mrs. Hudson’s voice cut through the attic space like a sword through a banana and sent Greg and Mycroft into a panicked tizzy worthy of the greatest physical comedians in history.

“Don’t come up!”

“And why not, Gregory Lestrade?”

That was said with mum tone and it made both boys gasp.

“Weeeeeeeellllll…. this is our secret fortress and nobody’s allowed up here but us. And Sherlock, but only if we’re here, too, to make certain he doesn’t eat any spiders. Which there aren’t any of because you keep it so clean, so I’m not sure why I said that.”

Mycroft gritted his teeth and snarled at Greg who was hoping beyond hope that his somewhat lackluster ability to tell an outright lie would prove as successful as it had with Charles.

“A secret fortress? I see. Mycroft, is that your tale, too?”

“I… that is… well… I… yes? Yes. Yes, it is for it is true. This is our secret encampment. Later we shall be designing a flag for it so do not hope to disturb us or we will be most cross.”

Greg’s head began shaking frantically, because that was perhaps not the best way to end the declaration which had been going surprisingly well, all things considered. Mum tone was not well met by being snippy as his smacked bum could gloomily attest.

“None of that, Mycroft Holmes, or it’ll be a mop in your hand and half the house to see clean and sparkly.”

Mycroft’s fresh gasp was even louder than the first since the threat of manual labor was a level of combat engagement he had not anticipated. Fair play to Mrs. Hudson, though, for reaching straight for the most formidable weapons in her arsenal on the first go.

“I… apologize.”

“Good. Now, you two can have your secret fort or base or whatnot, but don’t make too much of a mess for me and my staff to tidy. And Greg, you have a letter from your mum. I’ll put it in your room for later.”

Greg held his breath waiting for Mycroft to get a similar announcement but finally let it out when none came.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”

“You’re welcome. Mind the time, too. You don’t want to be late for dinner.”

“We will.”

Mrs. Hudson grinned from the bottom of the stairs and considered doing a bit of spying but decided that children needed their special places and little secrets, especially when those places and secrets were shared with friends. Besides, she had work to do and it wasn’t getting done standing here. It wouldn’t get done, either, having a sit with a cup of tea and the news on the wireless, but that was more a patriotic duty than being slothful. Anyone with a drop of British blood in them would agree, too.

__________

“I think she’s gone.”

Greg scuttled over to the narrow door leading to the stairs and peered down for a confirmatory look.

“Yeah, gone. That was close!”

Mycroft’s lack of answer told Greg the topic he had hoped they wouldn’t have to broach now required the unwanted broaching. And a scuttling back to get it started.

“I’m sorry I got a letter.”

“Why? It… it is a good thing.”

“Yeah, it is, but it made you feel bad and I don’t like that happening.”

Mycroft sighed softly, then smiled at Sherlock’s equally soft coo while he used both hands to slap Billy’s cranium.

“Oddly, it is not as sharp a sting as once it might have been. I find myself more happy you received your letter than I am disappointed I did not receive mine.”

“Really? That’s… that’s very nice of you, actually.”

“Realistic. Father is…”

“Busy?”

“That and… Father. I know he receives my letters, reads them… enjoys them, even… he tells Mummy and she would not lie to me about that, I do not think. Perhaps he… perhaps he does not understand well how to communicate that to me or that it is even something that should be done, at all. I begin to realize, as you speak about your parents and we embark upon our investigatory efforts that I know little how my parents think or feel about… oh, most anything. Even before the war, I cannot claim that I knew much concerning Mummy or Father to any appreciable degree.”

“I don’t think we’re supposed to know much about our parents.”

“But you do. Not every detail, but you know their temperament, their… heart. I cannot claim the same.”

Greg thought a long moment and still wasn’t entirely certain Mycroft was right. But he also wasn’t certain he was wrong. He thought he knew his mum and dad, at least, that they loved him and were good people and certainly not murderers who lopped off heads. But he also wouldn’t say he could predict everything they’d do or say. But… maybe those were the details Mycroft had mentioned. The parts what weren’t as important. Which, he had to admit, seemed true.

“Then maybe we can change that?”

“I would have no idea how to begin, let alone accomplish that task.”

“I don’t either, but we’re doing a good job with our investigation, so we can work on that next when we’ve got our thinking and planning skills at top form.”

Mycroft looked puzzled a moment, then nodded thoughtfully as his brain began to accept the idea.

“That… that is certainly worth considering. We are honing very important skills that I can see being useful for more than catching a murderer.”

“Hurray! What ho! We’re honing like pirate kings!”

Though his intellectual standards protested loudly, Mycroft held off remarking on the utter lack of sense in that statement. Frankly, if he ever found himself forced to be a pirate, he would certainly rise quickly to the status of a pirate king and he could do whatever he liked at that point, including honing. _What_ he honed would be entirely a matter of whim and happenstance.

“Indubitably. Now… Gregory? Where is Sherlock?”

The boys looked around the clear floor around them and found it markedly bereft of both a baby and a skull.

“Uh oh… the door.”

Two scuttlers made their way to the door just in time to see a small, nappy clad bum and two chubby legs crawling top speed around the corner at the bottom of the stairs and what appeared to be one of Billy’s few remaining teeth lying reproachfully on a step three up from the bottom.

“How’d he do that? It’s… Mycroft, Sherlock can do magic.”

“I would say he can move both swiftly and silently, the silently being the greatest surprise given his conduct at all other times.”

“But he has a skull! Well, obviously, but he has another skull. Not in his head!”

“We have sufficient mysteries on our hands, Gregory, that we do not need another. Let us make do with calling it a miracle and give chase.”

Greg took the fastest route of launching down the stairs like a lizard and sliding most of the bumpy way down, what ho!’ing loudly while Mycroft followed at a more sedate, and vertical, pace. Such a busy agenda… bamboozle Edwards into parting with monies for bicycles and obtaining said bicycles for their use. One of which should, if at all possible, be blue. Then leveraging their new transport to interrogate the local constables and, most likely, various members of the citizenry who were deemed particularly suspicious. THEN, when they have met with victory in solving the mystery, embark upon another. This one not as vital as bringing a murderer to justice but one… that was meaningful.

“No! Don’t eat that, you silly baby! Ow! That hurt!”

Additional agenda item – find for Sherlock some soft mittens to make his indignation less painful to endure.


	17. Chapter 17

“I’m in agony…”

Greg laughed loudly and debated pedaling faster just to be evil, but didn’t want to accidentally pitch his passenger out of his basket, even if Sherlock _was_ wearing a pot on his head to protect his tender skull from such an eventuality. A little faster pedaling was alright, though…

“It’s fun! And there aren’t any hills to make it hard.”

Hills… Mycroft felt certain that if they encountered so much as a molehill he would immediately cease to exist.

“We should have more thoroughly prepared for this torturous expedition.”

“No time, remember. As it is, it took Mr. Edwards and Charles three days to find these and see them put to top shape.”

Which Greg had loved, since he got to help with the fixing and cleaning and learned a lot about the art of pulled-from-a-barn bicycle maintenance. They were lucky one of the tenant farmers had his sons’ bicycles from when they were lads because there wasn’t a single one in the village! Even if a hen had been nesting in the spokes of his, they cleaned up good and proper and he got to make repairs and sand and paint his blue! It was a good blue, too. Mycroft’s was green which was nice, but not as good as blue. And he and Mycroft got to fathom out how to put a basket on the front of his, which was a lot of fun! Mycroft did the thinking and he did the tying and making a thing what kept the basket up so the twine didn’t have to do all the work. Maybe Charles did help with that a touch, but not as much as if he hadn’t been Greg Lestrade – Bicycle Repairer Extraordinaire!

“True, the delay was most unacceptable.”

Though it would have been made much easier if his brother would simply become distracted by another plaything and let them hide William in a secure location for the duration. The sheer effort and complexity of machinations to keep William from the eyes of any of the staff, and Mummy, had been herculean. Really, if Father suddenly became mentally unstable, he had little doubt he could now successfully step into his shoes and take on whatever rigors running a government during wartime entailed.

“I doubt the murderer would have picked now to move along somewhere since there’s not really anywhere to go unless he joined the army or something. They probably check for things like that, though.”

“How would they check for someone being a murderer?”

“I don’t know! They’re the army! They know how to do all sorts of secret stuff. I’d join the army to learn secret stuff if it didn’t mean having to go off and march and boring things like that. I like to walk and run and skip and hop, but you can’t dart off and chase a rabbit or anything when you’re marching. I think that’s very much not allowed.”

There likely wasn’t an officer in existence that could keep Gregory marching in a straight line, in Mycroft’s considered opinion. They would have to place him in a wheeled cage that the solider in front of him could pull along to their intended destination.

“Yes, quite so. How is Sherlock faring?”

“He’s eating a biscuit. I made certain not to tie his pot on so tightly he could move his mouth so he could talk and eat and whatnot. He hasn’t made any upset noises either, so I think the pillow under his bum is doing its job with the bumps in the road. And Billy’s still wearing his disguise.”

Which was the same flour sack Greg had carried him about in previously, but with ‘cabbage’ written across it in large suspicion-dispelling letters. And spelled properly due to Mycroft’s academic scrutiny.

“Good. It would not do to allow William to be seen.”

“Unless it makes the murderer do something rash so we know it’s them.”

“You mean like attempt to kill us to prevent our making his crime known?”

“Oh. No, I wasn’t thinking that at all but… ok, now I’m scared.”

In truth, so was Mycroft. Until the words leapt from his mouth, he hadn’t factored in the murderous urge of the criminal turning in their direction. At least Sherlock had a pot upon his head to mitigate any bludgeoning attacks.

“I… it is doubtful the murderer would go to such lengths. At the very least he would worry that my death would prompt the entirety of the police turned towards catching the murderer and not resting until he was in custody.”

“That’s true. They don’t know me terribly well here, so might only spare a constable or two for my bloody and painful death, but they’re likely friends with your mum and dad and would want to do right by them and catch the killer. If I think we’re about to be beheaded or something, I’ll toss Sherlock into the sack with Billy so the murderer will think he’s a cabbage, too, and leave him alone.”

The power of exasperation was mighty, indeed, for it invigorated Mycroft’s legs sufficiently for him to catch up to Greg and ride alongside him, if only so that Greg could receive the full force of his glare.

“What's that for?”

“I will take charge of asking questions in the village.”

“Ok. Don’t know why you had to give me the devil eyes for that, but everyone’s different.”

Throwing up his hands was a quickly reversed course as the handlebars of the bicycle seemed to take on a mind of their own and Mycroft saw his life pass before his eyes before he got them under control.

“I require quiet to think.”

“How quiet?”

“Very.”

“My bike squeaks a bit, is that ok?”

“Yes.”

“Ok, then.”

Greg immediately began singing a song about pirates and sailing the high seas, which he was making up on the spot evidenced by its lack of rhythm, melody or narrative coherence.

“I said quiet!”

“I thought you meant _you_ being quiet, not me, especially since my squeak isn’t a bother.”

With his biscuit well and truly eaten, Sherlock decided Greg needed accompaniment and began shrieking, drawing his chauffeur back into the musical fray while Mycroft wondered how long it would take someone to find his corpse if he simply pedaled into a tree and sought a less chaotic existence in the great beyond. Likely a goodly while. Given the thought of moldering by the wayside was not in any manner appealing, he would endure. Grudgingly…

__________

After several minutes of discussion concerning such serious topics as black markets and war profiteering, Greg and Mycroft decided to broach concealing their bicycles with the owner they'd met of the toy store and, further, bargained the hiring of a pull-along cart from a window display so that Sherlock and Billy could ride, given Mycroft’s body was far too fed up with his ludicrous turn towards exercise and Greg needed his arms, and fists, available should they encounter ruffians.

Their little parade along the pavement did, however, gain them numerous safety and responsibility lauds for Sherlock’s improvised helmet and their ready supply of gas masks, which had accompanied them in case a nappy crisis erupted for which they could not find a handy mum or nurse to manage.

“There. There is the local police station.”

“Ooh, it’s small.”

“Given there are only two members of our police ranks, that is rather to be expected. Actually…”

Oh no.

“… there… are three. If you count their dog.”

“DOG!”

“DWAD!”

This was a new level of agony formally unknown to Mycroft and it burned with the heat of a thousand suns.

“I am told there is a dog, yes.”

“What’s its name?”

“DEEEEEEEEEEEE DEE DE!”

“I have no idea.”

“I’m gonna ask. And then pet it. What ho, Mr. Police Doggy! Prepare to be petted!”

Greg marched, in a surprisingly straight line, towards the door, Sherlock shrieking encouragement behind him while Mycroft brought up the rear so as to be behind the sonic boom when Greg saw the dog in question.

“Ahoy!”

The constable behind the small desk looked up and felt his day brightening since a small boy holding up an imaginary cutlass and a baby wearing a pot on his head was leaps and bounds better than writing a report concerning a dispute involving a neighbor being too shouty and interrupting the music program on old Mrs. Wicke’s wireless.

“Ahoy yourself, lad. Can I help you?”

“What’s your dog’s name?”

“Oh… Toby. He’s about somewhere. Probably digging in someone's flowers so I’ll have to arrest him again for being a nuisance.”

“Can I pet him?”

“If you can find him, you’re more than welcome to pet him.”

“Hurray! Hear that, Sherlock, we’re going to pet a dog and save some flowers, too, which are your favorite, when you’re not eating them, that is.”

Sherlock’s loud approval of that plan nearly had Mycroft retracting his first step through the door, but he remembered just in time that he was a Holmes and hesitancy was an insult to their breed.

“That is for another time, Gregory.”

A small light went on in the constable’s head, both from the name ‘Sherlock’ and the hazily familiar figure striding towards his desk.

“Might you be the Holmes lad, by any chance?”

“I… that is correct. I am gratified my reputation precedes me.”

Definitely a Holmes.

“It certainly does. Very upstanding reputation, at that.”

Pot-wearing baby, notwithstanding.

“Naturally. In any case…”

“Any suspicious murderers lurking about?”

The speed at which Mycroft turned to stare at Greg could have been exceeded by a sleeping snail.

“I. Am. Asking. The. Questions.”

“Oh yeah. Forgot. Sorry. Carry on.”

Mycroft’s steadying intake of breath was audible from Mars.

“As I was saying, we have a school assignment to complete and would ask you a few questions pursuant to that, if you have the time.”

“About lurking murderers?”

“About… police procedures. We were to choose a profession and report on how it conducts its business. Gregory has interest in crime, you see, so this was an appropriate choice.”

Sherlock began babbling and Greg felt certain the baby also waggled the flour sack to either cheer on his brother or make an attempt to cut to the heart of things and dispense with the scheming. Fortunately, Billy stayed snugly inside his disguise and didn’t spoil their plans.

“Oh, one of them careers things. Got it. And good choice! It’s an interesting job, policing…”

Except when your only call out for the day was for entertainment curtailment.

“… what do you want to know?”

Mycroft cut another pointed look at Greg, which closed the mouth that was already opening to answer, and cleared his own throat to begin the interrogation.

“Would you say you maintain awareness of the population status and its variations within the community?”

“What?”

“You take notice of who’s about and who’s not?”

Greg smiled proudly at his growing expertise at translating Mycroft-speak.

“Got it. I’d say we do. If someone’s not been seen for a few days, we do take notice and do a bit of a check. Sometimes you find an elderly person who’s taken poorly and needs a doctor’s care. Or someone gone off on holiday but forgot to tell the milkman so people are worried about them when they’re not taking their normal delivery.”

“Excellent. And are there any individuals currently unaccounted for?”

“Hmmm… can’t think of any.”

Drat. That meant the victim came from further afield. A visitor perhaps…

“And do you also mark new faces to the area?”

“That we do.”

“Are there any meeting that description currently in the vicinity?”

“A few. That one there, for instance.”

Greg grinned and waved, which Sherlock found positively hilarious, likely for the impatient scowl it prompted from his brother.

“Besides Gregory.”

“Again, a few. Sarah Deacon’s daughter brought her new fiancé for a visit, for example. Nice chap. Has a dodgy leg, so he’s not off in the trenches.”

Though not impossible, Mycroft put it at low odds that someone of that description could subdue and behead an adult male. It was infuriating that they could not conduct tests for poisons and the like, which would fall within nearly anyone’s ability to use as a vehicle for murder.

“Yes, anyone else?”

“Always a few popping in from this or that government office. They do right by us, though, and let us know they’re here as a professional courtesy.”

Government service certainly did not preclude murderous tendencies. In fact, it might exacerbate them.

“I see. Very well, moving on to… oh dear.”

Being poked in the bottom was a novel experience and it was made only marginally more acceptable to Mycroft by the fact the poker was a dog’s nose.

“What ho, Toby! I’m going to pet you!”

Fully two-thirds of the investigative team was now lost to the mission as both Greg’s and Sherlock’s attention was fully focused on the large, friendly canine, who gladly accepted the pets and soft pats applied by one larger and one tiny hand.

“He’s a good dog, our Toby. Very friendly and gentle. Unless you’re a criminal, that is, in which case he’ll chase you down in short order. More inclined to sit on them and lick them senseless than apply a proper bite, but we’re thankful for his efforts.”

Licking… the amount of slobber being deposited on Gregory and his brother was horrifying. And they were laughing! Proof positive of their mutual insanity.

However…

“Do you utilize Toby for tracking purposes?”

“Good question! We have, a time or two. He’s found several children who’ve gone wandering. Get a good sniff of something of theirs and off he goes! One poor thing had been lost a whole day, too. Wandered off while his mum was at the shops and just kept wandering until he’d gotten past the Murphy farm. Little tyke was huddled in the hay trying to stay warm but Toby found him and stayed close so the lad felt safe. Barked like a mad dog to let us know where they were.”

The dramatic tale was utterly lost on Mycroft who had set his brain thinking after _We have_. It was highly unlikely that Toby could detect the murderer after what was surely an extended time between now and the date of the crime but maybe he could find the remainder of William’s body. The possible discovery of that and the further evidence it might provide could not be ignored.

“Most interesting…”

After putting a few additional and completely innocuous questions to the constable, Mycroft felt it was time to move to a more active phase of their investigation.

“Thank you for your time, it has both helpful and illuminating.”

“Glad to be of service! Always willing to answer questions about the work we do. Stop in again if you have more.”

“We shall. One request, however…”

“Yes?”

“Might we take Toby for a few hours to… test his tracking ability?”

“Toby? You want to have an adventure?”

The dog’s tail wagged so hard it smacked Sherlock’s pot to ring it like a gong. Which made the baby laugh even harder.

“I think he’s willing to help. Truth be told, he comes and goes as he pleases. Always finds his way home for supper, though. Though he might want that a bit later today than usual. Be off with you and have some fun.”

Mycroft’s brow furrowed, then saw Greg feeding the dog a biscuit while Sherlock gently smacked Toby’s snout with his teeny fist, eating a biscuit crumb that transferred from dog to baby with an indifference that made Mycroft shudder with prim disgust.

“Thank you, we shall do just that. Come along, Gregory. We have… information to gather for our schoolwork.”

“What?”

At some point, Mycroft’s lungs would simply give up the ghost, given the size of breath he was required to exhale for his exasperated sighs. That point, however, had not yet been reached.

“Please take Toby outside and I shall bring Sherlock.”

“Ok. Come on, Toby, I’ll race you to that bench. First one there gets a biscuit!”

Being bowled completely over by an excited dog was not at all unfamiliar to Greg, who whooped as he jumped back up and raced after Toby. Mycroft took the moment to send up a silent plea to the universe to keep the day somewhat sensible and lacking in physical effort, then grabbed the handle of the small cart and pulled Sherlock out into the weak sunshine. At least the day was not a sweltering one. That surely would bring him to death and it was now even odds that Gregory would allow his new friend to feast on his remains for reasons of dog hunger and a corpse lacking the ability to successfully pedal home a bicycle. This was the second time today he’d longed for merciful death. That was something of a record. Gregory should be proud…


	18. Chapter 18

“Absolutely not.”

“It’ll work!”

“I have no faith in that whatsoever.”

Greg glared and Sherlock squawked to support Greg’s extremely important standpoint, which was Sherlock getting to ride Toby like a pony.

“We could make a little saddle or tie him on somehow so he doesn’t slide off.”

“All of which would waste valuable time we could be using to pursue our inquiry.”

“ _After_ we do whatever it is we’re going to do, can Sherlock have a Toby ride?”

Sherlock’s loud, long babble as he presented defense of Greg’s stellar suggestion was not lost on his older brother. It was likely not lost on individuals living in Wales.

“I suppose we can speak again of his once that time has arrived.”

“Hurray! What ho, Sherlock! You’re getting a Toby ride! Just a bit later than right now.”

Sherlock’s happy squeals were accompanied by a joyful Baroo! from Toby, which made Sherlock squeal even louder with glee and Mycroft wonder if the village sold wax to stuff into his ear canals.

“Delightful. Now, we have actual work to accomplish and Toby is critical _to_ that work, so kindly cease distracting him with… anything.”

“Even biscuits?”

“Especially biscuits. He will eat all we have and leave none for the return journey home.”

Something which did not sit well with Mycroft, even in the theoretical condition.

“I didn’t think of that. Alright Toby, me ol’ mate – no more biscuits for you! At least not many. Maybe one or two more, because Mrs. Turner packed lots and we’ve not gone through half of them yet. We’ll bring more next time we visit, though.”

Implying to Mycroft’s mind that visits with Toby were to become a standard component of any subsequent excursions to the village. However, if subsequent excursions to the village were equally well provided with biscuits, lingering a few minutes with a dog was not a weighty burden to bear.

“Again, a matter for another time. Now, we must find somewhere private to begin our work.”

“Which is? I’m still a little out unclear on that bit.”

“If Toby has the ability to track as I have read about for some dogs, then he might be able to lead us to evidence associated with William’s demise.”

“He might sniff out the murderer!”

“Or, more likely, discover the balance of William’s remains.”

“Got it! Yes! And Toby’s good at digging, what with being a dog, so if the body’s been buried, he can dig it up for us, too. Toby! You’re amazing! Have a biscuit.”

Which meant the biscuit supply decreased by four because none of the investigative party saw a reason to exclude themselves from the success of this brilliant idea.

“Ok, so… we give Toby a sniff of Billy and let him keep sniffing until he finds something helpful?”

“I… yes, I suppose that is the plan, in sum. I am not entirely certain how to coordinate the matter, though. It seems Toby has performed this sort of task before, so I assume there is a standard protocol, but I have no knowledge of what it might be.”

“We should have asked the constable. Or maybe a soldier. One of the Home Guard, even. I imagine there are a few knocking about here and there checking for paratroopers and the like. They could be on the hunt for spies, too, I suppose, but there’s not much to spy on that I can see, but I’m not a Nazi, so I probably don’t think like they do and could miss a lot.”

“Yes, well… we shall have to make do. Perhaps… ah. The churchyard.”

“Are there graves there? If Toby gets a touch excited and smells bones, he might start digging before we want him to and make off with someone’s arm or leg to chew.”

“That is unlikely. They would certainly be in coffins, which he would be unable to breach.”

“That’s alright, then. Though…”

“Yes?”

“There are a lot of scary stories about churches and graveyards and skulls and the like and I’m not saying… exactly… that I believe they’re real, but they could be real, maybe, so do we have any sharp stakes or whatnot just in case?”

“Just in case we’re attacked by vampires?”

“That’s one possibility.”

“An impossible one.”

“Are you sure?”

Mycroft violated his own vague guidelines and took two biscuits from their supply, putting one in his mouth and starting to walk towards the churchyard waggling the other one to entice their canine companion into following. As Greg started after them, pulling Sherlock in his cart, their parade made an even more impressive show for adults of the village who marveled how even in these hard times, children were still children and made their fun in their own creative ways. That it kept that ridiculous, flower-destroying hound occupied for awhile was a highly pleasant bonus…

__________

“I’m sure there are vampires here. And ghosts! Ghouls, too. This is scary…”

Even in broad daylight, the overcast sky and tree-shaded cemetery had a slightly otherworldly atmosphere that had even Mycroft casting his eyes about for decomposing hands rising from graves, desperate to grab a living victim to… he wasn’t quite sure about that part, but knew it was dire and disturbing.

“Nonsense. It is simply the quality of the light and…”

“Graves! Graves with dead people. And, maybe, not dead people. And we’ve got a head with us, so they might be a bit angry about that. I don’t want ghosts and vampires angry at me!”

Sherlock’s sudden loud wail had both boys looking around frantically for the oncoming legion of the undead they’d angered with their presence, though they realized quickly that Toby was eating the baby’s biscuit and Sherlock was feeling sorely affronted by his loss of tasty baked goods.

“Dear heavens… Sherlock! Control your peevishness. And you, Gregory, control your imagination. We have no time for such frivolity. Now, since there seems to be no one about…”

Mycroft plucked the flour sack out of the cart and removed the skull to present to Toby.

“This is the scent we desire you to track, Toby. Whether it is to William’s remains of the living presence of his foul murderer we do not know but your efforts will be appreciated, nonetheless.”

Toby nudged at the skull, then gave it an experimental lick. Then stared up at Mycroft with a contented doggy smile on his face.

“No no no, Toby. I was not asking you to taste it. Track!”

The definitive tone and pointing finger did little to send Toby on his way, though the dog did give the skull another lick to show interest.

“We should have asked if there was a signal for him to start. What ho, Toby! Avast ye scurvy dog! Off to find a murderer, me hardy, and treasure, too!”

Toby shot off like a rocket, leaving Mycroft’s inevitable exasperated huff as a bolus of choking breath in Mycroft’s throat.

“Look at him go!”

Which reminded Greg that he’d best race after Toby or they’d never know where he actually went! Before he did, though, he snatched up Sherlock because he certainly couldn’t pull along the cart while he was running faster than any person had ever run. Ever! Mycroft liked walking more than running, so could catch up at his own pace. He’d make certain to make a lot of noise so Mycroft could find them no matter where they went or how far they ran. Something that set well with Mycroft, in truth. He could stroll at his leisure and not have to worry about anything in particular, since the mayhem-causing elements of their investigation were chasing a dog. If their mayhem became a touch too mayhem-y, it would be someone else’s problem to manage until he arrived on scene. Which, depending on the degree of mayhem, may take quite a long time to occur…

__________

“I’m confused.”

Mycroft was, too, but chose not to say it aloud.

“PWAH!”

“Sherlock’s fuddled, too. Why are we here?”

Not that Toby was particularly concerned, since he was far too busy merrily racing about and barking at the passengers leaving the small train station who, fortunately, were sufficiently distanced from the detective team that they paid the cacophony little heed.

“I… have no idea. We will have to investigate.”

“We’re good at that.”

“Without question.”

“Do you know what we’re going to be investigating, though?”

“We… that is… I assume the specific focus of our inquiry will be evident once we make a start.”

“Oh. Alright. How do we start?”

Mycroft threw up his hands which earned an approving howl from Toby and a hearty chortle from Sherlock, who had found that he could access the biscuits at will and, so, added a spray of crumbs to his guffawed opinion.

“Perhaps… oh dear.”

Greg had no real idea how Mycroft was able, in less time than the smallest amount of time he could picture in his mind, drag him, Sherlock, the cart and Toby around the corner of the station building, but that’s what happened and even Sherlock seemed shocked since the expected verbal assessment of Mycroft’s actions failed to occur.

“Mycroft, what…”

“Shhhhhh…. be silent, Gregory.”

Greg clamped his lips shut because he really wanted to ask a question right now but Mycroft had used a serious voice and a person doesn’t use a serious voice unless there’s something to be serious about. After their near escape from the ghosts, ghouls and vampires at the cemetery, he wasn’t willing to take chances by ignoring the seriousness.

Peeking around the corner, however, wasn’t noisy so Greg took a long look and found himself just as confused as before. Maybe poking Mycroft would do something about that.

“Stop poking me!”

“Shhhh….”

“I am exempt from that edict. Oh, do stop with the hand gestures. I cannot decipher them and no… your facial expressions do not clarify matters. Now, if you remain quiet, look again and find the individual with the dark coat, hat and valise. No! No, I can already predict the question. A valise is a hand-carried case for important papers.”

Greg nodded and looked carefully around the corner again, pressing his face close to the sturdy brick to minimize the chance of being seen. After a moment he found the person in question. Turning back he shrugged his shoulders since the moratorium on noise was still extant.

“That… it is… I have no idea what this means but… that is Father.”

“WHAT!”

Greg slapped a hand over his mouth and looked back quickly to see if he had traitorously revealed their location.

“Be. Silent. But… I understand your shock. That _is_ my father and…”

Mycroft looked at Toby who was alternately being fed biscuits by Sherlock and using his nose to poke at the sack containing Billy.

“… I cannot fathom why Toby delivered us to this place since… no! Do not look at me that way, Gregory Lestrade! My father is not a murderer.”

Toby choosing that moment to trot out of their hiding place and bound across the ground to gain a friendly pat from the not-murderer he’d started to sniff did little to clarify matters but it did cause Sherlock to erupt in a shriek due to being denied due attention. It was a mark of the Holmes family dynamics that the shriek was instantly recognizable and gained the attention of the person being investigated for a heinous and contemptible deed, evidence of which was resting comfortably in a flour sack.

“Sherlock?”

Mycroft hesitated a moment then stepped out into view, Greg leaping out after him because leaping showed you were strong and ready for action, something very important if you were dealing with a murderer.

“Ah, Mycroft. And might that be Gregory?”

Greg wasn’t sure waving at a head chopper-offer was a good idea, but it seemed rude not to so he did, but not as enthusiastically as he was able.

“Yes, Father. This is Gregory. Sherlock, as you know, is also with us.”

Though, bringing out the cart with Sherlock wearing his pot helmet wasn’t precisely the way a baby should be presented to his pater in polite society. However, in polite society, one’s pater did not magically appear at the train station in the path of a murderer-tracking police dog. The whiff of scandal was pungent, indeed.

“I… see. Yes, well… I assume Charles or Edwards is with you.”

“No, that is not the case.”

“No? Ah, they are busy with their own errands for the household. It is most fortuitous since I no longer have to phone for someone to collect me.”

“We rode our bicycles!”

Since this was not information particularly relevant to their investigation, Greg didn’t feel obligated to keep it a secret. Besides, he was very proud of his bicycle and riding all the way to the village like real investigators following leads and clues and such. Though that last bit did have to stay secret for now. He could think it, though.

“Bicycles? I… Mycroft, you have a bicycle?”

Mycroft could not object to his father’s incredulous tone, however, it still made him bristle.

“Yes, I do.”

“A green one!”

“As Gregory stated, a green one. We now have independent transport.”

“And rode here with Sherlock! We had to make a basket for him and see his head was protected but we did it and now we’re like real explorers off in the jungle looking for lost cities or treasure.”

Greg struck what he was very certain was a proper explorer’s pose and Toby’s excited barking assured him he’d hit the mark perfectly.

“Mycroft… am I understanding that you rode a bicycle here from home?”

The bristling was intensifying.

“Yes. I did.”

“We’ve done lots of fun things! Walked all over your land and visited places and had adventures and played games… Mycroft’s the best friend in the world and we have loads and loads of fun together.”

Greg’s brilliant smile was fortunate, in Mycroft’s opinion, because it distracted his father from the frozen shock on his face and slight bit of heat on his cheeks.

“I… see. That sounds… I am very glad to hear it. I take it you shall be riding home with me?”

Cutting eyes at Mycroft, Greg wasn’t surprised at the head shake that had begun.

“Thank you, Father, but no. We have business to attend to and it is not yet completed.”

“Oh. In that case, I shall see you later at home. Do you… require anything while you are here?”

“Why’d Toby run over and sniff you?”

Mycroft’s eyes widened at the question, but found himself very anxious to hear the answer.

“Toby? Oh, is that the dog’s name? He is often here, given the number of passengers and opportunity, I suppose, for attention or a bit of food. I believe he is, in some manner, associated with our constabulary, but I could be mistaken.”

This time it was Mycroft cutting eyes at Greg who properly recognized the signal not to confirm that particular statement.

“Ok. I just…. wondered if you were a little stinky. Can’t go home stinky! You’d need a wash before you got in the car and I know for a fact that there’s a sink in the train station toilet that’s very good for having a quick splash if you need one.”

Greg’s chaotic brain was often a source of Mycroft’s exasperation but watching it confound his father was positively delightful! And it provided a great deal of cover for any slips of Greg’s tongue while they were pursuing this sordid business. Which certainly would not end with his father being prosecuted for murder. What a ridiculous idea. Father was far too… _Father_ to commit murder. Murder required the excitement of some passion or other and passion was not a concept one associated with the man smiling blandly at them across the station grounds.

“That… well, that is a piece of knowledge that could prove useful someday.”

“You’re welcome! It was good to meet you, sir. We’ll see you later but we have things to do now, so we’ll get on with it, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course. Do enjoy yourselves and keep watch over Sherlock. He is very young, you know.”

Greg gave a soft tap on Sherlock’s pot, which made the baby do a bouncy, seated dance which could have been jubilant or designed to summon a demon to enact vengeance on Greg for being so disrespectful.

“We will! Mycroft and me will make certain nothing happens to him. Toby, too! Come on, Mycroft. We’ve got things to do.”

When they were fully out of sight and earshot, Greg stopped and jumped up and down a few times to work off the energy of not giving away a single clue about what they were doing. That was hard work!

“Mycroft, I have to say… I’ve never worked harder at not saying things than I did just then. I don’t think your dad was suspicious at all of what we had going.”

“No, I agree that he was not. At least, he did not give visible sign of suspicion.”

“Why’s he here, do you think?”

A question Mycroft suddenly realized he had never bothered to ask.

“I have no idea, however, it is not unknown for him to return home without notice. Or for Mummy to… fail to mention his impending return.”

“That’s strange, but people do things differently, I suppose. You know what this does mean, though.”

“The likelihood I can predict your mind’s workings is as near to naught as can be imagined by the most cerebral philosopher.”

“Was that a yes?”

“No! It was… I do not know what this means.”

“It means that we can interrogate your dad about the murder AND we can… maybe you can start to learn more about him. You know, like we talked about.”

Mycroft drew in a breath and slowly let it out, more to buy a moment to think than any oxygen-requiring reason.

“That is true. It does present an opportunity we did not anticipate on both fronts. At least, not one we anticipated would occur so quickly.”

“Think he’ll stay long?”

“That is doubtful. Father is far too necessary to the government to leave it unattended for long. Even a few days, though… there is much we can accomplish in a few days.”

“We can! Look how much we’ve already accomplished. I wager we’re becoming experts at accomplishing things. What say you, Sherlock, fellow accomplisher? Are we tops or not?”

“TAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!”

“Exactly! We’ve got lots of planning to do. And see if Toby has any more important information for us. Here, I’ll let him lick Billy again and see if he finds someone else interesting. Who may or may not be a murderer.”

“My father is not… no, I must be objective. I cannot definitely claim that Father is not a despicable killer, however, I find it unlikely, at best.”

“That’s ok. I don’t expect you to want your dad to be a murdering criminal. Let’s see if Toby can give us any more suspects, at least today. We should probably try this a few times so he has a chance to sniff about new places and people. We have to be thorough.”

“Yes, that is critical.”

“On we go, then! Unless…”

Greg slowly walked over to Sherlock and took a sniff. Then had a little feel of a well-padded bottom.

“He’s wet.”

“That… it is distressing, however, it is a far less horrifying a condition than the alternative.”

“I’ll wet the cloth we brought in the station’s sink and you get his nappy off. At least we don’t have to bury this one. Didn’t bring a spade!”

“Somehow I suspect you would have convinced Toby to do the digging for you.”

“Brilliant! You decide if the nappy needs a burial while I wet the cloth. What ho, Toby! Prepare for possible digging duty!”

Greg raced away at top speed, then raced back to grab the flannel from their supplies, then raced off again at even topper speed because he had to make up for lost time. As Mycroft started to prepare Sherlock for a de-nappying, he let himself reflect on the latest developments. Much was worrying, that could not be denied. Why Father was here, why Toby ran so readily to him after taking William’s scent, how difficult it might be to broach any conversation with his father on either the murder issue or the issue of understanding better the person who… who did not seem particularly interested in understanding the person his son happened to be. None of that, however, would he choose to dwell upon at the moment. He would rather dwell upon the fact that Gregory called him his friend. The best friend in the world. He was somebody’s friend. That was far more important to dwell upon. Far more important and far more wonderful, too…


	19. Chapter 19

In addition to twenty stone of biscuits, the investigators had been provided with a spot of lunch and decided now was a fine time to enjoy it since it had been a long, hard morning of detective work and biscuits, while delicious, weren’t doing the necessary job of making them feel as duly rewarded for a job well done as would a proper lunch. Toby continually nudging their food sack might also have factored into their calculations.

“I’m not certain what to do next, Mycroft. Toby’s taken us to loads of interesting places, like that pond and the post office and behind the greengrocer and to visit that nice old lady who was knitting scarves. I get a blue one!”

“Yes, we have seen rather a lot of the village, however, little to the benefit of our investigation.”

“That’s not entirely true.”

“Oh?”

“We can likely say that Billy’s not buried anywhere nearby.”

“That… yes, that may be true. Although we cannot discount the body being buried in a location we have yet to visit or to a depth Toby could not detect.”

“True. But we also learned that nobody had a thought about who might especially be likely to lop off someone’s head.”

“That did seem to be the case.”

“Lots of other things they thought people might do, though. Stealing, that thing with money that’s also stealing but they use the big word you knew…”

“Embezzlement.”

“… yeah, that, and being naughty with someone’s wife or husband. Or a sheep. That one’s a bit shocking, actually. And I’m not really sure what it meant, but they certainly seemed to.”

“The potential criminal ledger of this village is indeed startling, but I find myself less surprised than repulsed. Regardless, our main focus was not mentioned by anyone to whom we spoke.”

“Nope, no foul murderers. Though lots they suspected of being potential murderers of people who were still alive, like mothers and husbands and Mr. Tanner. Rather a lot of people suspected of wanting to foully murder him, which makes me sort of want to visit and find out why.”

“A matter for another time. I must think…”

While Mycroft tried to formulate the next step of their plan, Greg merrily munched his food and certainly did not finish what had been included for Sherlock, who had turned up his nose at the various baby-appropriate offerings and crawled into an especially grassy spot to play quietly with Billy’s sack. For a full five seconds, that is, until he fell asleep, with Toby happily cozying up next to him for his own comfortable nap.

“At this juncture… I think we have accomplished all that we are able. We should return home.”

“Already?”

“We should more studiously analyze our results from today’s work.”

“Can’t we do that here? This is a nice spot and look! I have cards.”

Greg pulled a deck from his back pocket, having been lent them by Charles who wished him more luck that he had with it during the previous night’s staff cutthroat game of cards. Which he’d lost rather shamefully and was already plotting how to win back his cigarettes from that cur Edwards. The man didn’t even smoke! The bugger would probably carry them about in his pocket, just visible to be a taunting villain, knowing there were almost impossible to find in the village and the black market shop wanted the sun and the moon for that brand.

“Here?”

“Why not? Sherlock’s having a kip with Toby and I wager he won’t be happy if we do anything to change that.”

Mycroft was very proud that he’d not shooed away the dog from his slumbering brother on hygiene grounds because… Sherlock peacefully sleeping was a joy to behold and his brother seemed very happy wrapped by furry warmth.

“Very well, we shall linger awhile longer. 

“Hurrah! This really is an amazing day.”

“I’d say so.”

Two youthful heads whipped around and looked up to find the constable from the police station smiling down at them.

“Have you been having loads of fun, too?”

While Mycroft quickly plotted how to keep their activities from being known, something inevitably set in motion when Greg was asked what they’d been doing to have so much fun, the constable laughed and sat down next to them on the grass.

“Fair bit. I’m just astounded you were able to run Toby’s petrol tank dry. He’s usually ready to cause mischief all the day long, but it seems you found a way to drain all that trouble-causing energy.”

“He’s been great! We’ve been to the cemetery and train station and greengrocer and… oh, it’s a long list.”

“Did you get information for your school essay?”

“Weeeeeeee…..”

Greg quickly cut eyes towards Mycroft because anything involving school or essays was really more his area. He’d wait for questions about climbing trees, playing marbles or monkeys.

“Yes, we were able to test his tracking skills. They are admirably robust. It is likely the number of challenges we placed before him that has led him to exhaustion.”

Greg nodded in support because that really was true, though, their challenges was a bit less plural than that, since it was only the one, but they’d had a good run about and found Mycroft’s dad and maybe not Billy’s body, but that was alright because it was early days yet. Though… if there was someone who might know a thing or two about murderers it was a constable and even though Mycroft didn’t want to ask anyone with the police, it might be time to be sneaky and try.

“What happens when Toby can’t track the murderer?”

Mycroft stared in disbelief but Greg waved him off and favored the constable with his most winning smile.

“The murderer?”

“I wager you wouldn’t use Toby for little things like someone being a bit rude to the postman or forgetting to pay for their pint which my dad has done and didn’t mean it but got told off for anyway by Constable Smith. Dad had to buy him a pint of his own so mum wouldn’t find out he’d been a bit of a thief, even if he was just being absentminded. So, a murderer!”

Overall, Mycroft had to give Greg passing marks because none of that drivel was terribly suspicious or revealing of their actual intentions.

“Alright. And I suppose two young lads would find murderers more interesting than rudeness or petty thievery.”

“Accidental!”

“ _Accidental_ petty thievery. Well, I’d say the first step was to ascertain the victim’s identity and how they were killed. Then…”

“Their head was lopped off!”

Greg’s performance score took a significant dip.

“Oh, that’s something we don’t see much of, but it’s certainly noteworthy. Do we have the head or not?”

“You have the head. Nothing else, though.”

“Got it. In that case, we’d at least know what they looked like, so…”

“Sorry, but it’s a skull.”

The moment seemed opportune for Mycroft to leap in. With whatever lie his brain could concoct in the split second between opening his mouth and his lungs pushing out some air.

“We are considering a… story. It was been a highly intriguing day and Gregory’s brain was already fevered by a radio performance he remembered so we have been discussing scripting a story of our own.”

A piece of apple fit handily in Greg’s mouth as Mycroft’s swift preemptive silencing action confirmed.

“I see. Got literary aspirations, do you? It’s a way to stay busy, I suppose, and maybe you could add some drawings to make it more exciting.”

Greg’s large, apple-plumped grin and bouncing bum dance told Mycroft the idea had now fully taken root in a certain brain. Marvelous. Fortunately, he was talented both with language and, to a small degree, drawing with pencils. And, in truth… it might be an enjoyable way to spend an afternoon…

“Yes, thus our curiosity about how the police would approach such a terrible crime.”

“Not much more terrible than someone going about lopping off heads, I do admit. Just a skull, though… that’d be difficult. Maybe take it to old Doctor Evans and see if anyone came to mind. Teeth or shape of something that my eyes wouldn’t know to look for. Probably bring it round to the vicar; he’s been here since Cromwell was gadding about. That supposing, of course, nobody had been reported missing. Takes a bit for a head to become a skull and we might already have an idea of the poor chap’s identity. That all assumes they’re local. Which isn’t a poor assumption, overall. We do see more new faces now with the war effort, but the odds lean towards one of our own being the one what was beheaded.”

“Does that occur often? The report of a missing person. An adult person, that is.”

“Nah, not here. At least not that amounted to anything. Maybe someone sleeping off a good drunk in a place a person really ought not to be found, like behind the big wall east of Will Davies’s pig sty. That sort of thing.”

“And… for the purposes of our story, of course… how far back do your records extend? As you noted, if the only evidence of the crime was a skull, then the murder would not be recent.”

“Good point! And we’d look through them, too. They do go back a ways and are accurate, if I’m to judge. Can’t think of anything, though, along these lines, but I haven’t read through all of them. I’d think, though, that if someone vanished into thin air, it’d be a bit of a local legend and there aren’t any of those floating about.”

Local folklore! Of course… but could it be circumvented?

“What if someone kept it secret?”

Thank you, Gregory.

“Oh, that sort of thing. Nothing to worry about, constable, me husband run off with some tart from Liverpool and woe is me left behind all alone… certainly a possibility. Again, though, I think there’d be talk and people do remember talk.”

Something, then, that might not inspire local gossip…

“Consider an option of relocation for work or college.”

“Ah, that just might work. Not the college bit, though, because I can’t remember anyone wanting that, but we have had a few go off to find something new or take a job with an uncle or the like. It’d be a bit of work to track them and, as we say, ascertain their whereabouts, but if someone popped in and dropped a skull on my desk, there’d be nothing else for it. It’s our duty, after all and we take that duty seriously.”

Mycroft nodded seriously as if in acknowledgement of the constable’s dedication to duty but, in reality, he was ruminating on the likelihood of the individuals in the village successfully perpetrating both a heinous murder and a successful concealment of that murder through deceptive measures. Few seemed to boast the intellect for such a task, but it could not be discounted out of hand. It was not likely not the prime option on their list for further inquiry, however.

“You know, lad, that might be something your da could do, though. He’s a government man, an important one from what I hear, so he’d likely have an easier job of it learning if Dick Whittington found the fortune he went off to seek in London or got that job in his cousin’s tannery. I don’t know if that would be good for your story, though. Not as exciting, perhaps, as the Old Bill bringing the murderer to ground, but two creative boys like you could think of something to keep your readers at the edge of their seats.”

Greg swallowed the last of the 2nd piece of apple he’d eaten and waved his hand in the air to signal he had a brilliant idea to announce.

“Maybe they work together! There’s a policeman and a government person and they’re friends and solve crimes and eat lunch and rid the country of filthy murderers.”

“That’s the ticket! Though, I’d wager they’d need to be in London for that. Seems that’s where most of the important government men lark about. Probably have better crimes to solve, too. Our crimes are a touch commonplace to make for good reading. Need something truly despicable or mysterious or involving members of Parliament or some such. I like those surveillance bits where they follow suspects through the streets, alleyways, opium dens and the like. Maybe after putting on a cracking good disguise. It’s difficult to follow anyone around here since you can be seen for miles in any direction most of the time and if you tried a disguise, that’d draw even more suspicion since a new face is always something to notice. Especially a new face sneaking about after some local chap.”

“I’m going to remember that. What ho, Mycroft! This is going to be the best story ever!”

Gregory’s chaotic brain was, sometimes, a blessing.

“Yes, that seems more and more likely. However, we are no closer to envisioning a method to capture the perpetrator or discover the identity of the victim, both of which are critical for our… story.”

“Oh, yeah, true. Forgot about that.”

“Where are you going to have your skill found, lads? That _can_ be a clue.”

Greg wisely didn’t answer as this we now veering strongly into a super secret information area and Mycroft was loads better managing all of that than him.

“We were considering an open field. One somewhat distant from dwellings and other structures.”

“Ooh… that does make it harder. Unless, of course, the land’s owned by some wealthy family, in which case it’s grand, because there’s little doubt someone in the family done the deed. You have all sorts of things now to work with – grudges, debts, dark family secrets, betrayal, blackmail, good coppers, ones what were paid off to keep quiet, dodgy magistrates, honest solicitors… ultimately, though, the rotten bugger hangs, but not until you’ve twisted the readers about like they was caught in a whirlpool. Smart choice.”

Not that Greg or Mycroft fully recognized the praise or the constable’s clear taste for reading murder mysteries since they both were still stuck at the ‘there’s little doubt someone in the family done the deed’ part of the dissertation.

“Well, you two have a lot on your hands, I’d say, so I’d best be off. If Toby tries to follow you home, which he likely will, just tell him to ‘back to work with you, Toby’ and he’ll understand. At least, until he finds something else to attract his attention, but that’s someone else’s bother. Enjoy the day, lads.”

“Th… thank you, sir.”

“Yes, constable. We… are grateful for your expertise and constructive criticism.”

“Always a pleasure.”

Waiting until the constable had stood, dusted himself off and made his way out of sight before they spoke, both Greg and Mycroft found the speaking part a touch hard to get started when the moment arrived. Neither particularly wanted to broach what absolutely _demanded_ to be broached. Sherlock beginning to fidget was a welcome distraction as they could simply wait silently to see if the fidgeting was a prelude to an awake baby or one nestling deeper into slumber. Finally, though, Greg couldn’t hold in the pressure of staying quiet. It hurt a lot!

“Mycroft… what the constable said…”

“I know. I am trying to take heart in the fact that he is speaking of murders in a literary sense. A technique that leverages a common person’s inherent distrust of the upper classes.”

“Ok. I’ll do that, too. One thing he mentioned, though… surveillance. That’s spying on people, right?”

“In a sense.”

“We haven’t done that. We’ve asked questions but not spied on people to see if they’re acting suspicious or having secret meetings or keep the rest of Billy in a chest by their bed.”

Barring the last part, Mycroft had to credit the basic premise as being a potential avenue of exploration, especially since all others appeared to have withered on the vine.

“It is not an unworkable plan and _could_ gain us needed information.”

“And… we can practice on your parents and the people in the house because it won’t look strange if we get caught because we live there so why wouldn’t we be there? Then we can spy on people here in the village, once our skills are tops.”

The look on Greg’s face was a bit too eager and Mycroft appreciated greatly the attempt to soothe the sting of the first sentence with the balm of the second.

“Yes, that seems an appropriate course of action.”

“DAH DAH DAH DAH DAH! DAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH! Dweeeee…”

Sherlock had, apparently chosen wakefulness as his post-fidget initiative.

“What ho, Sherlock, you sleepy baby! All nice and warm with your doggy blanket?”

A blanket that was curling even more snuggly around the baby, who was happy for the snuggling to occur.

“DAH!”

“I’m not certain Sherlock’s ready to abandon his furry bed, Mycroft.”

Checking his pocket watch, Mycroft did a small mental calculation then nodded.

“Very well. We can allow him a further half-hour if that is his choice, but then must depart.”

“Can we play cards?”

“I see no reason why not. It is, I suppose, an acceptable way to pass the time until we must extract my brother from his canine crib.”

“And we can plan our spying disguises.”

“Everyone in the household knows us, Gregory.”

“Your point being?”

“That, specifically.”

“Being?”

“No! That we are known entities. It is impossible to conceal ourselves beneath any form of disguise.”

“ _Can_ we wear disguises, though?”

“No. It would be far too suspicious.”

“Suspicious? Oh! You mean they might think we’re not just spies, but enemy spies!”

No, but whatever works…

“Precisely.”

“I didn’t think of that. No disguises. We’ll just have to be especially sneaky. What ho! Hide and seek! We can play and practice being sneaky.”

“Is everything for you simply an excuse to play a game?”

“No. But it if _can_ be an excuse, why not let it be? Games!”

Greg’s hands thrown into the air were entirely unlike Mycroft’s signature gesture, something that earned him a long string of bubbled babbles from the baby for some reason or other. Toby, however, was willing to use his tongue to wipe Sherlock’s face free from babble dribble.

“Very well. I shall use the opportunity to practice analyzing various data sets to predict probable concealment locales.”

“You’re talking foreign again. And we just avoided being arrested as disguised spies!”

“Intellect and a well-developed vocabulary are not the defining parameters for being labeled foreign!”

“That right there – foreign.”

“Untrue.”

“That, at least, I understood. Even though you’re wrong.”

“How dare you.”

“Dare? I know loads of games with dares! Here we go… we find things and dare each other to jump off of them.”

“That is idiotic.”

“They get higher each time. Or you have to land in something horrid. Or hard. Or you might get told off if you climb on it like a fire pump.”

“I refuse to play a jumping game.”

“Then I dare you to eat that bug.”

“No.”

“I dare you to steal a pair of knickers that’s out to dry.”

“WHAT! I abjectly refuse. Theft is illegal!”

“You can bring it back! Just have to prove you did it. And if you get caught returning it, you say that the wind blew it away and you were returning it like a good person.”

“Which is obviously a lie.”

“I _am_ a good person!”

“Implying that you, Gregory Lestrade, are a knicker thief.”

“Nope. You can’t prove that.”

“Your self-incrimination is all the proof I require. I wager that you have done it multiple times, also, as the example was quick to come to memory.”

“No!”

“Did you pack your spoils in your luggage when you departed London? I suspect half of your suitcase was ladies knickers.”

“Wrong and I can prove it.”

“You cannot because you have enjoyed ample time to hide your shame.”

“That’s the wrongest thing you’ve ever said. And you’ve said a _lot_ of wrong things.”

As the war of inanity continued, Sherlock and Toby used the distraction to confiscate the food supply and Billy’s sack and start off on their own adventure, Sherlock crawling furiously and Toby padding slowly alongside him. They had a respectable head start before their absence was noticed.

“Oops! They’re getting away!”

“Oh dear… at least Toby will prevent Sherlock from doing anything particularly rash. However, we should retrieve him and… Gregory. Look…”

Greg followed Mycroft’s gaze to a familiar figure standing some distance away. 

“I thought your dad would have left by now.”

“Obviously not.”

“Who’s he talking with?”

“I do not know.”

The boys watched as Mycroft’s father enjoyed what seemed an amiable chat with another man, dressed in similar London fashion and, also, with a valise. Both of which were on the ground next to the men. After a few moments, each man appeared to say their goodbyes and took up a valise. Not, however, their own.

“That’s not your dad’s valley thing.”

“Valise. No, it is not. Father’s was the slightly larger one.”

“Mycroft…”

“Do not say it.”

“I have to. That’s exactly the sort of things spies do. And spies sometimes have to…”

“We shall speak of this later. For now, we must… lovely.”

Sherlock and Toby had found a puddle.

“They’re having fun.”

“It appears so. Very well, we shall retrieve Sherlock and see ourselves home. Then… we may discuss matters in more depth.”

“Ok. That’s a good idea.”

Greg began collecting their things and putting them in Sherlock’s royal carriage before pulling the cart towards the splashing dog and baby. Mycroft, however, sat a moment further to allow his mind to reach an acceptable equilibrium. None of this was good. None of it. There must be an innocent explanation. There simply must! More than ever, though, their plan to initiate surveillance must begin in earnest. This had to be investigated and to the fullest extent of their abilities. A murder and the possibility of… oh, it was too painful to conceive. Could Father be a spy? A… enemy spy? No… no, that was simply a bridge too far. Hopefully. Thank heavens Sherlock was too young to comprehend the situation. It was the duty of the older brother to shield the younger from the harshness of life, but this level of harshness he would be hard-pressed to hide if Sherlock was but a bit older and less attentive to puddles, biscuits and other gentle things in life…


	20. Chapter 20

“There it is.”

“Yes, that is very much the case.”

Mycroft had never felt any appreciable anxiety approaching his home but, this time, a visceral tension was escalating with every rotation of the pedals of his bicycle. The situation was a fraught one. They must maintain a veneer of ignorance of the events in the village, conduct an investigation that had grown in consequence and continue to keep William away from the eyes of… everyone. Truly, he required a soothing beverage. And not only because he was perspiring rather uncomfortably.

“What do we do?”

“I… the proximal concern is William.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means the first thing we must accomplish is take him inside the house and keep him from being seen. I doubt we shall be required to engage in conversation with Father or Mummy at any point until the dinner hour and, perhaps, not even then should they opt to dine alone or we, ourselves, choose that route.”

“Yeah… I don’t feel ready to talk to your dad. Not really. Don’t know what to say! Or how to say things in a way that’s not suspicious, like asking him if he’s a murderous foreign spy.”

“That _would_ somewhat run counter to our goals. Let us plan for avoiding my parents until, at minimum, tomorrow and use the rest of the day to concoct a plan.”

“Alright. Maybe we should hide, though, so they don’t find us.”

“I doubt that will be necessary. Rarely… it is not common for my presence to be actively sought out. I see no reason for that pattern to be broken now.”

“Oh. Ok, then, we won’t hide, but we’ll stay out of sight, just in case.”

“How is that different?”

“Hiding is something like climbing down a well or crouching behind the food in the cupboard so you can’t be seen when someone opens the door for some salt. Being out of sight is… well, you can just be in another room for that. Without even kneeling behind something and being _extremely_ quiet!”

“Ah, I understand the distinction. At least, as you perceive it.”

Greg grinned and pedaled his bicycle as fast as he could until he stuck his feet straight out in front of him to coast the remaining short distance to the kitchen door, Sherlock squealing happily at the thrilling conclusion to his chauffeured ride.

“Really, Gregory. Such theatrics.”

“You mean fun. That was a lot of fun. And Sherlock agrees!”

Mycroft brought his bicycle to a stop in a highly dignified fashion, despite miscalculating the step down to the ground and having to grab the handlebars a little harder for support.

“As you say. Good, there you are, Charles. We are done with our vehicles for the day. We shall likely need them soon, so do inspect them for any issues requiring repair or maintenance.”

Greg stood looking between Charles and Mycroft’s back as the latter boy walked towards the house and felt a sense of relief that Charles simply grinned and shook his head rather than give him two portions of a scolding with direction to deliver one to Mycroft as soon as possible. However, he waved brightly after hoisting Sherlock out of his basket and raced after Mycroft, just to be safe.

“Try again, young man.”

And now Mycroft was being glared at by Mrs. Turner. He couldn’t leave Mycroft alone for a minute! Even Sherlock was shaking his head.

“I merely requested a cold beverage.”

“Last time I checked, requested and demanded weren’t the same word.”

“Of course not. The spelling is entirely different.”

“That’s it. Be off with you. If you’ve a thirst, there’s taps in the bathroom you can use for a drink.”

“I refuse! There is nothing refreshing about bath water.”

“HOW ABOUT, Mrs. Turner, since you’re very busy with important cooking, maybe I can get Mycroft a cold drink and you don’t have to be bothered with it, what say?”

Greg smiled another of his bright and toothsome smiles, though Sherlock found this worthy of another moment of disappointed head shaking.

“Hmmmm… alright. As long as you have my flour sacks and they’re still in the condition they were when you took them this morning.”

Greg held out the baby, who was holding the Billy’s sack, which was inside their food sack and continued to smile brightly.

“Both of them! One of them… can we keep it?”

“Why?”

“Ummmm…”

It’s got ‘cabbage’ written on it which might be a bit not what would be expected for a sack that had flour in it to start.

“… we need something to hold our stuff.”

“What stuff?”

“That’s hard to say because a lot of things can be stuff and we don’t always know what’s going to be stuff until we find it and it becomes ours.”

Mycroft was actually afraid to nod in support for fear of being declared insane.

“You’ve learned the wrong lessons from that one there; that was one of the whirlies stories I’ve ever heard. Keep the sack. I don’t want to know what you’ve done to it you don’t want me to see. Now, settle yourselves for something to drink and get out from under my feet. Your… your father is home, Mycroft, and he likes a proper meal in him after he’s come from London.”

“Yessss…… I see. Was this a… planned arrival? I have no memory of Mummy mentioning such a thing.”

“Not to my mind, it wasn’t, but you know he comes and goes on his own schedule.”

“That is true. Thank you. For notifying me, that is. I… I feel it is best, given Mummy and Father shall likely appreciate spending their evening together without our interruptions, that Gregory and I dine in my bedroom tonight. We shall also take responsibility for feeding and minding Sherlock, so his meal can be delivered on the same tray.”

Mrs. Turner cocked an eye at Mycroft, who appeared as nonchalant as usual, despite the perspiration stains and mussed hair, but she knew the boy well enough that his attempts to hide something didn’t go as unnoticed as Mycroft might have hoped. However, boys should have the chance to hide their shenanigans provided they didn’t bring anyone to ruin and if that group of miscreants hadn’t brought any ruin yet, they likely weren’t poised to do so now. Of course, the village could be aflame right now because of something daft they did, but there’d probably be a whiff of smoke about them, so it was an acceptable risk given they only smelled of boys having a long day out of doors.

“Alright, I’ll have something up to you later on. AFTER you’ve given your face and hands a wash. I’ve seen pigs that are cleaner and I wouldn’t feed _them_ if they came into my kitchen.”

Mycroft’s mouth opened for the easily-anticipated rebuttal, so Greg made a proverbial leap to save them both from the oncoming train of irritation that would ultimately result.

“We will! And we’ll wash Sherlock, too, even though being clean doesn’t last long with babies.”

At least the two troublemakers were learning some important life skills during their bouts of hidden shenanigans.

“There’s a pitcher of something cold in the icebox and you know where to find cups.”

Correctly interpreting that as a dismissal to get on with their day, Greg transferred Sherlock to Mycroft and quickly filled their cups with something that smelled gingery and sweet, which was fine with him since his mum said ginger was good for the stomach and that could mean it grew more room for food, and that would be very helpful since there was lots to eat here and he didn’t want to waste even a single bite. He carried the cups, Mycroft carried Sherlock with their sacks and the two made their retreat from the kitchen, continuing to their attic hideaway where they finally sat, gave Sherlock Billy to play with and took long sips of their drink, Sherlock getting his own tiny sip of Mycroft’s since they’d forgotten to bring a separate cup for him. Sherlock’s repulsed expression served notice to his servants that gingery drink was not suitable for his highly-cultured tastes. The fact they’d caught him drinking from the puddle he’d found with Toby would not be mentioned.

“We have a tremendous task before us, Gregory. Father is not a man to underestimate. His intellect is extreme and, from what I gather, he is most cunning, though he typically does not present in that manner.”

“Yeah, but you’re smart and cunning, too, so I’m not worried. At least, not about being sneaky and asking good questions.”

Mycroft sat straighter from his position on the floor, feeling the growingly-familiar surge of pride at Greg’s praise.

“Yes, I, also, have confidence, but we must not become _over_ confident. We must have clear goals and paths to achieve those goals.”

“PWAH!”

“Sherlock agrees! Should we make another list of questions?”

“Perhaps. In truth, however, I am not certain what to ask. In one sense, the questions are most clear but how to ask them with concealed intent is another matter. Now… now that we have a greater motivation for questioning and force of mission, we must be especially circumspect to prevent even the slightest chance of discovery and failure.”

“Does your dad keep a journal? My mum does and I’m not allowed to read it because it’s very private and I haven’t even though I really want to know what’s in it because she’s sometimes smiling when she writes, but sometimes sad or angry and I suspect there’s a lot of interesting stuff in it.”

“That… to my knowledge, Father does not keep a personal journal, however, my knowledge already has been proven insufficient for the task at hand.”

“We should check. Not to read it, at least not now, but to know if it’s some possible evidence for… something.”

“There may exist, also, in Father’s papers, some information that helps to direct our investigation. Those are kept in his office.”

“Is it locked?”

“I…”

It occurred to Mycroft that he didn’t know. When his father was not home, he never considered even entering the room and when his father _was_ home, he never considered entering without first knocking and gaining explicit permission.

“I do not know.”

“We should try the latch and see. If not, we can try windows. Is his office on the ground level or higher?”

“Ground level.”

“Shame. It’d be fun to climb your house again.”

“We do not need our investigation to be disrupted by an emergency trip to hospital because you have fallen and fractured your skull.”

“If Billy has survived this long, I think there isn’t much danger for my head cracking like an egg.”

“William is dead. He has _not_ survived.”

“Well… Billy is the _skull_. The _person_ is someone else we haven’t met yet.”

“And cannot meet since they are dead.”

“Of course they are! We wouldn’t have met Billy any other way. When I die, maybe my skull and Billy can be friends. I’d like that, actually.”

Mycroft found the thought of skull Greg rather soothing since a salient feature of skulls was their blessed silence.

“That bridge shall be crossed when we reach it. For now… yes, it is likely prudent to verify that Father does not keep a journal of some form and inspect his office for clues. We must be extremely careful, however, because there is little doubt many items and documents we examine could be top secret.”

“Top secret! That’s amazing! I don’t particularly like being thought of as a spy, but I _do_ like the idea of having a look at top secret documents even though I suspect I wouldn’t understand most of them and the top secretness wouldn’t mean much to my brain. Maybe there’d be something like plans for a new weapon or plane, though, and that would be the best thing ever to find. Can we go look now?”

Mycroft pursed his lips and thought a moment.

“No. No, we are too likely to be caught out in our actions. Or, at least, some of them. I propose we make a hasty, albeit thorough, search of Father’s bedroom. That is the most likely location of any personal journal. And we shall wait until the household has gone to bed for the night to undertake a search of his office.”

“Ooh! That’s brilliant! Can we wear black and have masks and skulk about like robbers?”

“Masks are unnecessary; however, dark clothing is wise. We shall also need a torch, given we cannot use any larger-scale lighting.”

“I know Charles has one. Edwards has several, too. We should be able to borrow one easily enough.”

“There are others in the household, too, should those prove problematic to obtain.”

“Time to make a start?”

Checking his pocket watch, Mycroft nodded and made his way to his feet.

“First, we must surveil the premises and ascertain the whereabouts of Father, Mummy and the household staff. Only if our way is clear can we search Father’s bedroom.”

“Yeah, because we can’t be seen. Should we bring Sherlock or…”

“I feel we must. Now that he has regained full access to William he will surely protest having that access again restricted beyond replacing William in the sack.”

“True. He hasn’t had much chance to play with him, today. And… oh! If we do get caught, we can say Sherlock got in on his own and we were just taking him back out.”

“Given Sherlock’s proven ability for getting into locations he should not, that is not an unfeasible, if deceitful, defense.”

“Does that mean yes?”

“It means yes.”

“What ho, Sherlock! You get to be our defense! Or… what’s it called when you have a story for the police when they said you’ve done something but haven’t or want them to _think_ you haven’t?”

“An alibi?”

“That’s it. Sherlock, you’re an alibi.”

Sherlock’s bright smile and happy giggle confirmed his approval of being used as a tool for espionage. With the spy team membership established, Mycroft and Greg made short work of gathering Sherlock, Billy and their beverage cups, which were deposited in the kitchen, and mapping the locations of people in the house. With their initial reconnaissance completed, they made their way towards a part of the house Greg had only seen during their frantic search for a skull-stealing baby.

“There, Gregory. That door leads to Father’s bedroom.”

“You keep saying that. Why?”

“Because it _is_ his bedroom.”

“Yeah, but it’s your mum’s too, so…”

“No. Mummy’s bedroom is two doors along.”

“What? No. That’s daft.”

“I assure you it is not.”

“They have their own bedrooms?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I… I am uncertain why this is remarkable to you.”

“None of my mates has parents with different bedrooms. Or me! Admittedly, our flat only has the two, but it’s still baffling to me. Why would they do that? Mum says my dad keeps her warm at night and who wouldn’t want that?”

“Hmmmm… that does sound beneficial, especially given your family’s likely lack of excessive funds to budget for heating costs, let alone additional blankets or a duvet. However, we are well-provided with bed linens, so sharing heat through bodily contact is not necessary.”

“What about smooching?”

“What?”

Greg puckered his lips and made loud kissing sounds that earned him a smack across said lips by a tiny and somewhat drool-wettened fist.

“Oh dear lord… I assume, for point of argument, that they have ample time during the day to tend to such things.”

“I’m still not convinced. Maybe… no, I can’t say it. It might hex us.”

“Say what?”

“I just said I can’t say it.”

“Immaterial. Speak.”

“Hi! I’m Greg and once climbed to the very top of one of those statues in the park that’s some old duffer what done something a thousand years ago but doesn’t look terribly happy about it because he’s not smiling. That’s true, too, and not just a funny story. Which… we could use that for the story we were going to write. But maybe not because I don’t really see what could come after that would be fun to read. Can you think of anything?”

Mycroft was internally furious that his mind began meandering along the path of constructing a narrative subsequent to Greg ascending an example of dour statuary and made it several miles along that windy path before it realized its fool’s errand and turned back.

“Focus upon the task at hand. In fact…your role shall be to keep watch while I search the premises. Remain in the corridor… ah, playing with Sherlock, and If anyone approaches… perfect. If anyone approaches, shout What Ho! as an alert to me.”

“I can do that! I’m a bit of an expert at that, actually. Then I can chat with them and give you time to hide.”

“Hiding will be somewhat unnecessary as there is a second door through which I can make an escape into the room between his and Mummy’s.”

“Two doors? Your family must have even more money than I thought.”

Uncertain why bedroom door quantity might be considered a metric of wealth but, at the same time, unwilling to probe the issue in any depth, Mycroft simply opened the door, quickly looked inside, then disappeared to commence his search. For his part, Greg dropped onto the thick rug that ran along the corridor and began using his fingers as puppets for a self-created play to amuse Sherlock. By the time Mycroft reemerged, toes had been added to fingers as characters in the growing theatrical production.

“What’d you find?”

That Father’s pretense to blandness extends to his bed chamber. Did the man have nothing vivacious in his entire wardrobe? Or décor? What a dreary room. It was as if he scarcely spent a moment in the space which, to be fair, might be attributed to his rare appearance in their country home.

“Nothing of use. If there is a journal hidden in the room, the hiding was exceptionally successful.”

“It was worth looking, though. What about…”

Greg nodded down the corridor where Mycroft and indicated his mother’s bedroom could be found.

“I am not prepared to entertain further allegations against my family, Gregory. I simply cannot bear the thought at this point. There is already so much to contemplate…”

Sherlock began pounding Mycroft’s foot with his fist, then used Mycroft’s leg to pull himself a bit forward and upward to stand shakily while holding Mycroft’s trouser leg for support.

“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”

“Hurray! Good job, Sherlock! Mycroft, take his hand and see if he can walk a few steps.”

“I… are you certain?”

“Yeah, I’ve seen mums do this before. Helps them learn.”

“Very well.”

“And, that way, you can be the lookout while I take a peek in your mum’s room.”

“No! I absolutely forbid it.”

“You’re just worried you’ll find something if you _do_ look, like Billy’s body or a radio she uses to send secret messages to the enemy. This way, I’ll be the one who finds whatever there is to find and… you won’t have to feel so bad about it.”

Greg didn’t wait for an answer, but hopped up and ran into the bedroom, carefully closing the door behind him while Mycroft sighed loudly. However, he couldn’t deny that Greg’s point had some merit. He did _not_ want to find anything nefarious in his mother’s room. His father’s behavior today was sufficiently nefarious for a lifetime.

“Sherlock, we are commencing walking practice. Kindly proceed slowly and concentrate.”

It was testament to his own level of concentration that Mycroft completely lost track of time while he carefully escorted Sherlock for several separate rounds of walking practice that ended only because he heard a loud, hissed ‘psst!’ echo in the large corridor.

“Gregory?”

“Shhhh… don’t give away our plan.”

“What plan?”

‘Oh right. Don’t give away that I found something. Somethings. Upsetting somethings, too.”

Mycroft’s quiet gasp preceded him racing over to stand by the door Greg hadn’t fully exited.

“What? What have you found?”

“First… this.”

Greg held out a pair of man’s underpants. Vibrant purple underpants made of what Mycroft quickly recognized as silk.

“Egad! That… what…”

“They were in a drawer. And… this is… I don’t even know what it is, but it sort of scares me.”

Greg pulled his other hand from behind the door to show Mycroft the black garment, if garment it was, which was provided with bows and straps and a zip… it looked like a sea monster from a book!

“Whatever is… I…”

Mycroft put his most formidable powers of deduction to work on the data and found a few vague memories from a catalog he had once seen after his mother had attended a fashion event while in London.

“It is a woman’s… I am not entirely certain if corset is the proper term given it’s rather elaborate nature, but it is a similar thing, regardless.”

“Mycroft… my mum has a corset. It doesn’t look like this.”

“Hence my equivocation. I cannot begin to fathom why anyone would consent to wear such a thing. It does appear that it would perform a slimming function, which I believe it its purpose, but why such…”

Mycroft made a flurry of motions with his hands at the bustline.

“… highly-decorated scaffolding is present utterly befuddles me.”

“Is it suspicious?”

“I do not see how, though…”

“Yeah?”

“It is decidedly… un-English.”

“Ooh… that’s not good. Not when your dad may be a murderous spy. There… there _are_ lady spies, aren’t there?”

“A femme fatale! Oh dear heavens… if anyone would wear such a thing, it would certainly be one of their malefic lot. Is anyone in my family free of malign intent? I am undone, Gregory… absolutely undone.”

And he looked it, to Greg’s eyes. Quickly replacing the damning evidence where he found it, Greg rushed back out and put his arm around Mycroft’s shoulders.

“It’ll be alright. We’ll solve this mystery and… maybe it won’t be as bad as we think. I was going to suggest we wait until tomorrow night to search your dad’s office, but maybe we should do that tonight. I can do it alone, if you’d like, and tell you what I find.”

“Thank you, Gregory. That will not be necessary. I agree that we should conduct our search as soon as possible, however, so let us begin gathering the necessary supplies.”

“Ok. Can we have code names?”

“What?”

“Well… this is sort of like our own spy mission and spies have code names.”

“They are entirely unnecessary.”

“Fun doesn’t have to be necessary! I’ll be Pirate and you can be Matey.”

“Under no circumstances. If forced to participate… I shall be Aristotle.”

“Is he a pirate?”

“NO! He is… was… a philosopher and scientist.”

“Ooh! He sounds smart, just like you, so that fits. What’s Sherlock’s?”

“Sherlock is not party to our conspiracy.”

“Sure he is! He’s been in the thick of it the whole time.”

Denying that was beyond even Mycroft’s capacity for curvy discourse.

“Very well. He shall be Mephistopheles.”

“That’s too many letters.”

“An unimportant factor since he shall neither answer to it nor be called to provide it on an exam.”

“You have a point. What ho, Mesofleas! You’ve got a proper code name now!”

Greg’s upraised arms and merry dancing made Sherlock gape, then lever himself up to bounce gently, powered by his chubby thighs.

“He’s dancing! Mycroft, you have to dance with us. This is important.”

Greg began copying Sherlock’s happy-baby bouncing, laughing all the while, which drew Mycroft into a hesitant bit of bouncing that energized the more he saw how it made his brother giggle. The task ahead was dire and the consequence of what they might discover were devastating. However, his brother was too young to realize any of this and it would be his own life’s purpose to make certain that never changed. Let Sherlock continue to enjoy life and make merry to his heart’s content; his elder brother would always have a watchful eye on him to ward against anything that might dim that joyful smile…


	21. Chapter 21

It proved unsurprisingly easy to avoid the Holmes parents for the evening but surprisingly _hard_ to stay awake until the house staff had taken to their own beds for a much-deserved rest. The gathering of relevant espionage supplies, however, kept both boys awake enough to finally be ready for their incursion into enemy territory. Finding appropriately-dark material for Sherlock’s nappy was especially problematic, but Greg had only that day stumbled upon several examples of soft, dark fabrics and neither boy saw anything strange about using what began life as a black satin peignoir as a baby swaddler, though the shininess issue had been the subject of a vigorous debate.

Now, standing outside the window of his father’s study, Mycroft found himself utterly committed to the task of discovering the truth of his family. Whereas he might have suffered qualms before today, those had been summarily erased by the overwhelming body of evidence that he was the progeny of villains. And, despite the fact there was much about that heritage to whet his excitement, and _had_ whetted Gregory’s to a somewhat unwholesome degree, he could not continue forth with the glorious future that lay ahead in service to humanity if he did not fully lay to rest any potential scandals or, failing that, distinguish himself as the one who saw those scandals brought to justice.

Justice, however, was slow to arrive given Gregory was demonstrating naught for skill with a pry bar.

“Have you no strength whatsoever?”

“Lots! I have lots of strength, but you told me I couldn’t hurt the wood even a tiny bit, so I’m trying to be very strong and very careful at the same time and I honestly don’t think that’s possible anywhere but inside your brain.”

“Pish tosh… I merely directed you towards delicacy. Strength does not preclude delicate handling.”

“It does if you’re as strong as me!”

Greg dropped his tool and made a grand show of his muscular development, which earned him a pair of moon-highlighted rolled eyes and a pebble impacting his shin with baby-tossed force.

“Continue with your task, Gregory, and cease that juvenile display.”

“PWFEEE!”

“Sherlock concurs.”

“Neither of you have any respect for proper muscles. And I think you have to pick one – do you want me to open this window or do you want me to look like I’m trying but can’t because you’re afraid you’ll get told off for seeing the wood dented and scratched.”

Mycroft scowled, but found himself unable to fully lay aside Greg’s concerns. They could leave no trace of their activities and splintered wood showing starkly through scraped-away paint would not be missed even by the most inattentive member of indoor or grounds staff.

“Very well… I shall try my device.”

“You mean that magnet we found?”

“The magnet that I improved for enhanced function.”

“You had me tie it to a stick so your hands wouldn’t get dirty if you used it.”

“Thus enhancing the function. Now… the ladder.”

Finding a ladder that Mycroft deemed safe, which to Greg meant one that didn’t scare his friend when he went past the second step, hadn’t been terribly easy, given walking about with a ladder wasn’t the most inconspicuous of activities. Fortunately for them, the dark hid many manners of mischief as a certain pirate-cum-housebreaker had learned through long experience.

“Ok… let me heft it… is… is this where you want it?”

“Yes. Now… steady it while I ascend.”

Greg grasped the uprights tightly and held firm while Mycroft slowly climbed to the third step so his face and hands could be just above the window latch. Waggling his fingers at Greg, who had an uncertain moment since he needed two hands for ladder steadying and one hand for magnet-from-pocket removal, Mycroft waited with growing impatience until Greg substituted a wrapped-around leg for the necessary extra hand and had the magnet held out and up to his friend for an exasperated snatch and reproachful glare.

Not that either the glare or the magnet did a great deal of good.

“What’s taking so long?”

“It… the magnet lacks sufficient strength to pull back the latch.”

“That’s not good. Is there a way to make it stronger?”

“No. Unless…”

“What?”

“We use another type of magnet.”

“They do have different shapes, that’s true.”

“No no no… I refer to an electromagnet.”

“What’s that when it’s at home?”

“One uses electricity to create a magnet.”

“Ooh! That’s a thing… you can get your lights switched on and have a magnet, too? Wait, that doesn’t make sense. You’d have your lamps and wireless be magnets and I think I would have noticed if that was the case.”

“There is a specific procedure one must follow to obtain the desired results. I read the steps in a book and it appears rather a simple thing if one has the proper equipment.”

“What’s that?”

“Wire…”

“There’s wire in the garage. I saw it.”

“… iron…”

“I… nails? Or a kettle.”

“The kettle would be far too heavy to wield effectively. However… hand me the pry bar.”

Greg grinned and reached down for the bar, tossing it up to Mycroft. Who missed and watched in shock as it sailed through a pane of glass. The time required for Greg to scoop up Sherlock, Mycroft to leap off the ladder and all three race away to hide behind the shrubbery would have been difficult to measure by any available timepiece. After many long minutes lacking the sound of a constable’s whistle or brace of household staff armed with candlesticks and kitchen knives, Mycroft and Greg heaved a heavy sigh and slowly crept back towards the window.

“I don’t think we need the magnet anymore.”

Mycroft frowned, but couldn’t deny that obvious fact.

“No, we do not. Come, we should make haste.”

Gathering their various investigatory tools, as well as Billy, who had been placed into the suitably dark and easily carried receptacle that was Mrs. Turner’s Sunday handbag, Greg followed Mycroft up the few steps of the ladder and through the window Mycroft had opened by carefully reaching through the broken pane, flicking the latch and lifting the window just enough for entry. There was a tense moment when passing Sherlock through which nearly resulted in a dropped baby since satin wasn’t the most frictiony material in existence, but all finally made the journey to stand on the handsome rug and look about the roomy space.

“It’s a big room.”

“Yes. Both here and in London, Father hosts meetings and, therefore, there must be sufficient space to host a number of guests, as well as… whatever the planning and discussions require such as, very likely, that large table. Regardless, we should begin. You search the bookcases and I shall search Father’s desk.”

“What about Sherlock?”

“He can search that section of the rug, away from the broken glass.”

“Ok, here we go, Sherlock. Stay over here and… you can play with Billy for a bit and… let’s see what I happen to have in my pocket a baby might like. Biscuits! Tasty biscuits to keep you happy and quiet while we work.”

Unclear why he was not being provided with biscuits to maintain a measure of happiness, Mycroft nevertheless set about his task, first inspecting the few papers lying on the desk and, after finding them dull as dishwater and completely lacking in all things murderous, he moved to scour the drawers for incriminating documents or other evidence of misdeeds.

The moving was short-lived, however, given the drawers of the desk were locked. All of them. Whereas this did not stand as unequivocal evidence of the aforementioned misdeeds, the scent of impropriety was overpowering.

“Gregory, I require your assistance.”

“For what?”

“Opening drawers.”

“And… why do you need me?”

“They are locked. I may be able to manage the locking mechanism, but require more than moonlight to do so.”

“Got it. You need the help of… dah da da daaaahhh - Torchman!”

Greg leapt into a heroic pose, then dropped it to snatch a torch from their supplies and again assume his heroism, this time with the appropriate prop.

“Are you finished?”

“I can sing a song if you like.”

“I do not. Prepare the torch and make yourself useful.”

Greg snapped to attention and saluted Mycroft, yelping when the torch slammed into his forehead.

“Silence!”

“It’s the torch’s fault!”

Sherlock’s happy squeals and burbles indicated his approval of tonight’s vaudeville performance.

“Irrelevant!”

“Very relevant since I’ve got a bump now.”

Mycroft snorted thunderously and crossed his arms across his chest, glaring at Greg who was rubbing his forehead in only a slightly exaggerated attempt to soothe his near-fatal injury.

“Might we continue?”

“I suppose. If I die, remember that my skull wants to be friends with Billy, even if there’s a dent in my bone that was put there by a stupid torch.”

“NOW!”

Greg snapped to attention again, saluted and yelped even louder as he hadn’t set down the torch.

“You are an imbecile!”

“I am!”

“Affix the blasted hood to the torch and present yourself here without saluting or I shall hurl you out of that window.”

“Don’t do that! We already have to explain one broken pane of glass. A whole window would be leagues harder!”

“Gregory!”

“Right!”

Greg quickly grabbed the hood they’d fashioned to reduce the visibility of their torch for outside observers and presented himself to Mycroft for inspection.

“You are extremely fortunate your likely future is with plants, as they have not even the miniscule amount of intellect required to outwit you.”

“It’s true. I’m dumb.”

“That you are. Now, hold still the torch while I study the lock.”

Greg did as he was told and waited patiently as Mycroft stared at the lock, then removed a selection of small tools from the pocket of his waistcoat, which he’d worn specifically because it had a pocket to carry a measure of their tools.

“I believe this shall be a simple matter, but I require quiet.”

“I’m not very good at that.”

“I know.”

Signing deeply, Mycroft set about manipulating the internal workings of the lock, stopping only to glower at Greg who’d started whistling and, after many long minutes, another sigh sounded in the room. This one of satisfaction.

“I have succeeded.”

“You did? That’s amazing!”

“PWAH!”

“Exactly! Can you teach me to do that, Mycroft?”

“It is an exacting skill, so I cannot guarantee you will gain my level of mastery. However, I will provide basic instruction.”

“Yes! I’m going to be a crook!”

“Unacceptable. I shall _not_ allow it. I cannot be known to consort with hooligans and blackguards.”

“If your parents are murderers and spies I’d say you already do that, so I can be a crook if I’ve mind to.”

“That… very well. Your point is made. However, I shall ignore it since it is point unproved.”

“ _Yet_.”

Mycroft poked Greg hard on his head bump which provoked a loud yelp from Greg, a happy shriek from Sherlock and a slamming open of the study door which quickly filled with three hard faces and three revolvers pointed straight at the two boys behind the large desk. One of those revolvers, however, wavered slightly when the light was switched on.

“Good lord… Mycroft?”

“F… Father?”

Whereas Mycroft was utterly dumbfounded, there was no confusion whatsoever in Greg’s assessment of the situation.

“He’s going to kill us! Murderer!”

The combined screams of terror from Greg, Mycroft and Sherlock shook the foundations and brought the other two revolvers down before an accidental twitch deprived the Holmes family of its heirs. That did nothing, though, to reduce the confusion on the adult side of the confrontation.

“Sir? How do we proceed?”

“Take one child apiece and… is that a skull?”

Shooting a frantic glance at Billy, sitting next to his handbag, Greg realized that things had taken the final turn downhill.

“Don’t kill Billy! He’s already dead! You killed him and now you’re going to kill us and… I don’t want to die…”

Greg started crying. Sherlock started crying. Mycroft started sniffling and three adult men wished they could rewind time and remain cozy in their beds when the house alarm in their bedrooms interrupted their sleep. However, not even the Holmes influence extended into the area of manipulating fundamentals of the universe. It did, however, extend to taking control of unexpected situations. Some more chaotic and baffling than others.

“Edwards… kindly collect Gregory. Charles, collect Sherlock… in whatever he is bundled… and I shall take charge of my son and that skull. Your mother is awake and awaiting a report, young man. She will not be pleased.”

Greg turned tear-stained eyes to Mycroft, who responded in kind. This had gone from bad to worse. Guns were scary but angry mums were scarier still. They were going to be killed by a femme fatale, a spy, their henchmen and they still hadn’t solved their mystery! It wasn’t fair. Maybe they’d be buried in the same unmarked grave, though. That would be something, at least. They deserved _some_ reward for being foully murdered before they even had a spot of breakfast to carry with them to the afterlife. Maybe Sherlock would visit a time or two. Not even femme fatals and spies would kill a baby. That was good. Two in an unmarked grave was cozy but three, one with a nappy that would likely still need changing when he was a ghost baby, was a bit too close for comfort…


	22. Chapter 22

Four adults stared at the soot-blackened faces of three dark-clothed figures sitting gloomily on the sofa, one with his arms alternately wrapped around and slapping at a snaggle-toothed skull held in his tiny lap. That the soot on the faces was somewhat caked by tear trails made the tableau even sadder to view.

“Is that my peignoir?”

Mycroft dropped his head into his hands and Greg began snuffling again because that had been said with tone. The sort of tone that preceded a truly volcanic scolding.

“Perhaps… perhaps, my dear, that is a matter best left a mystery for the moment. Though, I think you would admit, Sherlock does wear it rather grandly.

A cool pair of female eyes met a warmer set gazing across from a distance too far to receive a much-deserved swat. However… the coolness quickly warmed as a small smile replaced the frown that had adorned her lips since the alarm sounded.

“I would at that. Though I could do without the chimney soot on his little face. Or on yours, boys. Now… for what possible reason were you, Mycroft, breaking into your father’s study? And in such a… vigorous manner?”

The vigor of the break-in didn’t bother Mycroft’s father nearly as much as finding himself wearing the proverbial shackles of the accused.

“And why on Earth was I deemed a murderer? There seems a number of matters requiring explanation and I suggest, for your sake, the explanations are both sound and compelling.”

Given the only perpetrator seemingly not undone with distress was Sherlock, the likelihood of an answer arriving with promptness was abysmally low.

“You two contemplate your upcoming defense and we shall use the moment of silence to examine the skull. Edwards, if you please?”

Edwards did _not_ please since he’d seen the impending tantrum building in the baby when the skull was removed from his proximity for the short walk to the drawing room and, with Master Sherlock, an impending tantrum was akin to a cocked gun. The death and destruction was already loaded and simply waiting for the trigger to be pulled.

“Charles is closer.”

“Coward.”

Edwards thought a moment, then nodded in affirmation of his incredibly smart and strategic cowardice in the face of an infuriated infant. Which _still_ left Charles on the hook for removing the skull from Sherlock’s clutches, a feat he chose to accomplish much as one would remove a plaster – swift and sure.

“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!’

Sherlock looked ready to dismount the sofa, stalk over the Charles and do battle for his best friend, which sufficiently frightened the humans over 10 years old into making a flurry of motions indicating Charles should forget any mention of taking the skull away from the screaming child and reverse his actions post haste. All would be forgiven and forgotten and never, ever spoken of again.

“PWAH! Free doop pah pah PAH…”

Glaring hard at the skull-stealing barbarians, Sherlock sniffed, slapped Billy’s cranium, then promptly leaned… fell… over onto Mycroft with Billy in his hands, holding it like a plush animal while he cooed and kept a suspicious eye on his current nemeses.

For his part, Mycroft took one hand away from supporting his angst-filled head and used it to gently pat his brother, something Greg echoed by tapping absentmindedly on Sherlock’s lightly kicking feet. It would have been a beautifully wholesome scene were it not for the skull. And the housebreaking. Accusations of murder also somewhat spoiled the mood. Pursuant to that…

“Ahem… yes. I believe, should I recall properly, that I was named as, first, a murderer and, second, the murderer of the former owner of Sherlock’s… friend. Let us discuss that, shall we?

Mycroft shook his head, but Greg sniffed loudly and nodded, never lifting his eyes off the floor.

“Billy’s dead and you done it because you’re a spy and a murderer and now we’re going to be murdered, too, and Sherlock’s not going to have anyone to play with and that’s on you, too. Murderer.”

That was informative.

“I… thank you, Gregory, for that succinct synopsis of your position. Might I address your points?”

“No, because you’re a spy and a murderer so you’ll lie and that’s bad, too.”

James Holmes sighed deeply and cut eyes at his wife, who was smiling with what he was extremely sure was a completely inappropriate degree of smugness. This was peignoir revenge. However, revenge _upon_ the revenge would have to wait for a later time. Now… there were far more pressing and baffling matters with which to contend.

“Ah. Yes, well…”

“Oh, James. The boys’ extremely serious allegation deserves more than waffling. Shall I take the lead here, Gregory? You see…”

“No, because you’re a lady spy and you’ll lie, too. I don’t know if you’re a murderer, but Mycroft says your corset what looks like a sea monster is un-English and I have to agree so if we have to die, I’d rather not be lied to, too, because that’s sort of rude and… well, that’s a bit much, don’t you think?”

Now the smugness was on the other foot. Or face, in this instance.

“My darling wife… you have an un-English corset? How… spy like of you.”

“At least I’m not a murderer!”

“Maybe you are, though, Mrs. Holmes, because that chap who wore the purple pants might be dead for all we know. You could have had one of your henchmen do it because you’re a lady and all, but it’s not really hard to murder someone if you have a gun. Or something sharp. Or the Green Poo of Death.”

Young Gregory was a veritable fount of both information and opinions. All were terrifying.

“Yes, well… that is to say…”

“Waffling is such an unflattering thing, my dear. Do strive for less of it, what say?”

A well-manicured fist was waved at a smirking husband and two henchmen decided that if anything was to be accomplished, the Order of Lackeys would need see it done. The indoor lackey was nominated to take point.

“Master Gregory?”

“Yes, Mr. Edwards?”

“The questions you and Master Mycroft were asking me in my office… those are relevant to this current situation, am I correct?”

Greg turned eyes at Mycroft who was looking sadder than a boy should ever look and, seeing no help from that front, nodded.

“We were investigating Billy’s murder.”

“That is the skull, if I understand correctly.”

“It is, though his real name is William. It’s for Willian Shakespeare.”

“Laudably literary. Might I ask where you found Billy?”

“Ask him…”

Greg pointed at Mycroft’s father then lowered his hand. He was tired and even pointing was too much energy right now.

“… he’s the one who did the murdering and burying. Unless you did that part because I imagine Mr. Holmes is like Mycroft and doesn’t like getting his hands dirty.”

Edwards privately conceded the fact and moved on.

“Given my employers appear somewhat occupied…”

Alternately making dove eyes and threatening violence against one another.

“Let us continue without their input. While I cannot speak for anyone else…”

Charles was unsure why Edwards spared him a long glance but he vowed vengeance in any case.

“… I have not spent time burying a murdered corpse. I still am curious where you found it, though. And if other remains were discovered, too.”

“Nope, just the skull. And… I found it while being an explorer. We went to the lake and it was brilliant! Animals and birds and plants and I climbed a tree and explored everywhere like I was in the jungle, though there weren’t quite enough trees for that but that’s alright because it was still fun and Mycroft got to read and have fun, too, which is the best. And then Billy.”

It seemed a few relevant pages had been omitted from that novel.

“Could you, perhaps, expand a bit on where and how Billy was located?”

“I told you.”

Ummmmm…..

“It is rather late, I’m afraid, and my cognitive… thinking… ability is not up to standard.”

“Oh. Yeah, I’m tired, too, and being murdered when you’re tired seems unfair, but spies and murderers don’t care about that, I suppose. Makes it all the more terrible for the person they’re murdering.”

That Master Mycroft nodded slowly was testament to the fact that the young were clinically insane.

“Then, please provide a touch more detail on the Billy situation.”

“What situation?”

How did mothers manage?

“Where Billy was found and how he was discovered.”

“Ummmmm… I can’t say exactly where he was found because it was just a field near the lake and it may have a name but I don’t know it and there weren’t any signs or anything, except the one I made so Mycroft could find me if he wanted to follow along and come exploring. I saw him when I was in the tree. It was this lovely field and there was this white rock and I wanted to look at it more since who wouldn’t! and that’s when I found him. We were very careful getting him out of the ground, too, to preserve evidence. Not that it matters anymore because we’ll be dead and Billy really can’t tell anyone what happened, now can he?”

A tiny flicker of light sparked in Edwards’s eyes and he checked to see if Charles was experiencing the same degree of flick.

“How… how closely have you examined Billy, might I ask?”

“Very closely, I’d say. We decided it was a man because he was bony but not an old one because he doesn’t look like Mr. Porter and may have had bad teeth but we don’t know if he’s English because Mycroft doesn’t think you can know that sort of thing from just a skull. He read a book, you see.”

“On phrenology.”

Mycroft’s almost-whispered words were the first sign his standard-level youthful insanity hadn’t descended into utter mental malfunction.

“Yeah, on that.”

“I see…”

Given the lovebirds had now caught onto the fact that information was actually flowing and one did not interrupt the flow of information until it had run dry, they continued to affect distraction while Edwards teased the story out of the helpfully-garrulous Greg.

“Your thoughts, Master Gregory, on the likelihood of temporarily removing the skull from Sherlock’s possession?”

“It’s a bad idea.”

“I tend to agree. Could you or Master Mycroft, at the very least, examine a feature for me?”

“Probably. He lets us take it now and again, as long as it stays close, even if it’s in a cabbage sack.”

Charles’s snorting at the word cabbage also put a few recent incidents into perspective.

“Most helpful. If you would, then, examine the roof of the mouth, near the back.”

Mycroft’s despair had been pushed aside a moment by his curiosity and he carefully took the skull from Sherlock’s fingers to begin the inspection.

“There… Gregory! There is a number!”

Mycroft budged closer to Greg to share his discovery, squishing Sherlock between them, something the baby did not like in the slightest, though his wriggling failed to bring about positive change to his circumstances.

“I see it! Do I have a number in my mouth?”

Greg opened his mouth as wide as it would go and tilted back his head. That Mycroft actually looked to check said much to the adults about how much of a real boy he was becoming now that he had a friend at his side.

“Of course not. However, William does and that cannot have occurred by accident. Edwards… divulge your shame.”

“ _My_ shame?”

“You were aware of the marking, therefore, you are incriminating yourself as an accomplice to this crime.”

Greg nodded firmly and pointed triumphantly at Mycroft, who was quickly finding his lost footing.

“A crime, might I note, gentlemen, you have failed to prove occurred.”

“It’s a skull! Mr. Edwards… you can’t deny Billy here is dead. And a skull.”

“I agree with both points, Master Gregory, however, the _manner_ of his death has not been discovered.”

“Someone buried him near a jungle. That says murder to me.”

“PWAH!”

“Sherlock agrees, too, and he’s very smart for a baby. And we already decided Billy can’t be from an ancient city or something because… well, I’m not sure we decided that for sure, but I don’t think people from ancient cities look like maybe-English chaps, bad teeth or not.”

“Not an ancient city, that much is highly probable. Whereas the possibility of a modern-day Burke and Hare exists, medical colleges prefer their corpses to be a bit fresher than the dusty bones of this or that Druid. And that skull _was_ in the possession of a medical school at some point in its history.”

Greg and Mycroft shared a shocked look and neither was entirely certain what to make of his new revelation.

“A doctor murdered Billy?”

Though Greg was willing to try.

“More the case that your friend died and their body was donated to a teaching facility. I _do_ know that it was obtained from a medical college because Mrs. Turner mentioned it when we were discussing the event.”

Each adult congratulated themselves for not saying some version of ‘oh right’ aloud and kept the realization unverbalized.

“Event? Mycroft, you didn’t tell me about any event. Why didn’t you invite me?”

“Firstly, I did not know you and second… what event?”

Both boys looked at Edwards who was trying not to be the third person in the room to look smug. He hated being late to the party.

“If I recall you were much the same age as Master Sherlock and the household was in residence here for a small holiday. Some theatre group asked permission to have a small performance series on the property… near the lake… and, while the fuss of actors and a fair number of attendees making camp on the grounds was not entirely to the citizens’ liking, a good bit of money was spent in the village and flowed to farmers who milled about or erected tables to sell various goods, so most were content with the invasion. That skull was a prop in two, I believe, of the performances. I suppose it accidentally was left behind when they departed.”

Greg and Mycroft gaped at Billy, now revealed as an amateur thespian and, moreover, likely not a murder victim or ancient king, then huffed their disappointment since actors prancing about on stage weren’t very interesting, even if they were only a skull. Certainly not as interesting as anything they might have imagined for Billy and now they felt a bit bad for the poor chap who was revealed to actually be a bit boring.

“Well, that’s no fun!”

“I do apologize, Master Gregory.”

“It’s not your fault, I suppose, but you could have made up something better. Something with pirates, for instance.”

“PRATE!”

“Or monkeys.”

“MUN!”

Greg started laughing, which felt good because laughing always did, but felt more good than usual since they’d solved the mystery! Not in the way they thought they would, but they still did it, so that counted and they were now detectives extraordinaire which was a terribly good thing to be, in his opinion.

“What ho, Sherlock! We solved the case! And you’ll say monkey soon which will be the best word ever for you to say first. And you can keep Billy! We don’t have to give it to the constable to send your dad to the gallows.”

Which brought a question very much to mind in the exonerated murderer’s mind.

“Really, Mycroft… whyever would you think _me_ a murderer. You know very well that is not a likely thing even given this turn towards flights of fancy.”

James Holmes watched his son’s back stiffen and a look cross his young face that verged on anger.

“No. I do _not_ know that. I do not know you at all.”

The room, including Sherlock, grew very quiet at the abrupt shift in mood.

“Yeah! Not at all!”

Except for Greg.

“I… come now, boys, surely you…”

“Surely _nothing_ , Father…”

Mycroft’s tone was sharp as a knife and its steel was matched by the glint in the young boy’s eye.

“… I know not who you are nor have I ever known. I see you rarely and when I do it is a fleeting thing. My letters remain mostly answered, we speak not on the telephone… I do _not_ know you.”

The stillness in the room took on an icy quality that had both Charles and Edwards wondering if they should make a discrete withdrawal before deciding neutral parties might prove necessary if the opposing sides required some degree of umpiring. Mrs. Holmes, for instance, looked particularly ready start a row.

“Mycroft Holmes, that is a horrid thing to say about your father.”

“It’s true! Mycroft’s just being honest and there’s nothing horrid about that. And it makes him sad which nobody much seems to care about and… well, that’s horrid, too, if you ask me. But maybe that’s the story since you’re spies and all. Mycroft is smart and decent and you’re working with the enemy so of course you wouldn’t want him to know you. And you probably like that he feels sad, too, because evil people are just that way.”

Greg’s finger shook harshly at his hosts and he moved Sherlock just enough that he could budge even further towards Mycroft in case the spies tried something sneaky and mean.

“We are not spies! Or evil. Gregory Lestrade, if you have been putting these ridiculous lies into Mycroft’s head…”

“NO! You will not disparage Gregory, Mummy, not for one moment. We saw Father in the village engaged in a swapping of valises in precisely the manner one finds for espionage. We _saw_ it happen and if he dares lie about it then… then I deem him, and you, deceivers as well as traitors.”

The number of qualities of stillness that room was boasting during this conversation were numerous and none were comfortable in the slightest. When this one was finally broken it was by a voice tinged with resignation.

“I see. Gregory, I owe you an apology, for it seems your perceptions were not without a base cause. James…”

Greg’s face started to twist from the glare it had been sporting to something else, but since he didn’t know what that something else was, it got a bit stuck in limbo.

Which, coincidentally, where the head of household was currently having a thoroughly unentertaining holiday.

“Yes… I am beginning to see things a touch more clearly now, to neither my comfort nor my conscience.”

A long-fingered hand ran through James’s hair, loosening the strands in a way Mycroft had never before seen and it filled him with a strange sense of unease. Father was… mussed.

“You were not imagining things, Mycroft. However, your interpretation is a tad off the mark, though it is not an unreasonable one given what you witnessed and the time in which we live. The reality… it is sometimes part of my work that I must have channels of communication that are… other than the norm. Whether it is with allies or those not precisely allies, but with specific areas of common cause. For that latter group it is often beneficial, for them especially, that our communications remain clandestine, such was what you witnessed today. I felt it prudent for this situation to draw as little notice as possible. A bland bureaucrat visits his family and spares a moment to chat with a stranger about the weather, the war… I hadn’t realized two pairs of vigilant eyes were observing my movements.”

“Whose?”

Mycroft threw up his hands, Greg responded with a ‘what?’ shrug while Sherlock made a wet noise that dripped, literally, with scorn.

“Ours, dunderhead.”

“But there were four of us. You, me, Sherlock and Toby. But I suppose they didn’t see anything since they were playing in the puddle and having loads of fun, though not as much fun as watching spies do something crafty.”

Mycroft huffed in exasperation, shaking his head in disbelief that this, now, was his life. Watching the two boys interact, the Holmes parents had to concede that, slanderous accusations aside, the two were a remarkably successful team. And, more importantly, their son had found a true friend.

“But, even if your dad’s not a spy, it doesn’t explain why he doesn’t pay attention to you.”

A true fried that isn’t afraid to strike massive blows against those who may not have failed their country but _have_ failed in other catastrophic ways.

“No, it does not, does it, Gregory? And I cannot explain away this element of conduct as easily as the first. Mycroft, I… I have never given thought to the matter but I find that I cannot look into my memory and find evidence to say I have done anything that paints my conduct in anything other than the darkest hues. Though, and I can only ask that you believe me when I say this, it was never by intent. No… no, I must retract that statement. Some was by intent, under the guise of keeping, to other eyes, a great distance between me and my family. To make it appear that my family was not something I loved deeply so a blow against it would inflict only the most minor of wounds. I have worked to lessen your value as a target of retribution or as a point of leverage, however… I did not intend to abandon you so cruelly. My work consumes much of my time and that I cannot change, however… there is no excuse I can provide for not answering your letters. I read each, multiple times, and feel ever blessed to hear your news and thoughts. Why I so rarely reciprocate… I have no idea. Or why, after your mother informs me of household events, I do not specifically ask to speak, also, with you. There is nothing that I can do but tell you how sorry I am for that. And I am, Mycroft. I am terribly, terribly sorry.”

Mycroft’s face brightened and he started to speak but Greg got there first.

“No… that’s not all you can do. You can promise not to do it again. You didn’t say that once. Not ever and saying sorry but still being mean is even worse than not saying sorry at all.”

Mycroft’s father had, in truth, experienced genuine gut punches when he still engaged in more active legwork but none hurt quite as much as this one. Especially when he saw his son’s eyes darken once more as his hoped-for bit of… hope… was again dashed against a rocky shore. However, there was no denying young Greg was correct.

“Your point is well taken and an important one, besides. I _will_ work to change things, Mycroft; on that you have my word. And that is not something I take lightly. I may still be… less accessible that I would prefer, but I will do everything in my power to never, ever, allow you again to feel neglected, my son. But, if it does seem that is happening, please tell me. Do not hesitate. I _will_ make things right, I promise.”

It was telling that Mycroft looked at Greg and waited for his nod before responding.

“Thank you, Father. Th… that means a great deal to me.”

The heavy sheen in Mycroft’s eyes was another gut punch the elder Holmes had to endure but it further hardened his resolve to never allow this again to happen. He could not bear to see his son so moved over the promise that his father would actually show him even a morsel of attention.

“And now you, Mrs. Holmes.”

Oh, Gregory… you are not sparing anyone, are you? However, the lady wife is squirming and that means the throne of shame is being warmed by two bottoms, which is a more agreeable thing than one.

“Me?”

“Yep. I think you need to promise, too, because you didn’t shout for Mycroft to come and talk to his dad or ask his dad why he wasn’t writing any letters, so…”

Greg’s ‘there you have it’ gesture would have appeared cheeky if his eyes still weren’t shaded by both determination and suspicion. No one in the room, however, could fault his commitment to protecting his friend. For such a happy, rambunctious boy he had a spine of steel when it came to defending Mycroft but that but often the way of those with great and kind hearts. The fire that burned hottest within them was the one that burned to protect someone they held dear.

“True, to my discredit. Very well… I also promise to ensure my son does not suffer as he has to this point. Though I _also_ hope that he will express his upset in the future and not hold it inside to fester.”

Which he _will_ do if you are not here to prod him. My dear Mycroft… far too serious and stoic for someone so young. It is not your fault we mistook that for contentment with your situation. That is your father’s and my sin and one we will move heaven and Earth never again to commit.

“Ok. Mycroft… you’re not going to fester, are you?”

“No. That is a lesson learned and one I will not forget. Either for me or for Sherlock.”

Who was blissfully ignoring everything around him but Billy, while he blew a few baby bubbles and rested his head on Mycroft’s leg. Even Greg tickling his feet failed to disrupt the baby’s calm. This, to Greg, was a signal since he really wanted to be calm right now. And, by calm, he meant very much asleep and dreaming of breakfast.

“Ok, we’ll fix the window tomorrow and sweep up the glass. Mycroft, are you sleepy because I am but I’ll stay awake as long as you want for… I don’t know but it doesn’t matter because you do and that’s what counts.”

Mycroft thought a moment, then carefully moved Sherlock’s head off his leg and hopped off the sofa.

“I, too, am ready for bed. Mummy, Father… thank you. This has been… helpful. Gregory, if you will carry Sherlock?”

Greg leapt off the sofa, made his most muscular pose, then lifted up the baby, with Mycroft taking charge of Billy, all the time keeping his face turned from his parents so they didn’t see the few tears sliding down his cheeks. Once they’d left the drawing room, he allowed himself to sniff sharply and take the moment to compose himself.

“Are you ok, Mycroft?”

“Yes. Somewhat… turbulent, but not in a way I regret. And… I must thank you, Gregory, for being my advocate. It was evident your words were impactful and, to me, they were… I am very happy you are my friend.”

Greg smiled widely and did a spirited jig, though not spirited enough to perturb the baby in his arms.

“I’m glad you’re my friend, too! And, now that we solved our mystery, we can do anything we want tomorrow.”

“No, because you volunteered us to return Father’s study to its former condition.”

“Oh, yeah I did do that, didn’t I. It won’t take long, though, so we’ll have _almost_ all of the day to do anything we want.”

“Have you any idea how long is required to repair a window? Or the steps to affect the repair?”

“No, but I thought you likely did.”

“Why on Earth would you think that?”

“You knew how to break into the desk! Fixing a window has to be a lot easier.”

“I would disagree. Heartily.”

“I disagree with your disagreeing. We’ll race! I’ll try to break into the desk and you try to fix the window. The one who finishes first wins.”

“Preposterous.”

“Does that mean it’s the most amazing idea in the world?”

“No.”

“Then I disagree.”

Mycroft threw up his hands and endured Greg’s giggles, which handily camouflaged the ones made by Mycroft’s mother, since she and the other adults were merrily spying on the goings on. When the boys were out of sight, Charles and Edwards took their leave so the inevitable conversations between their employers could begin. Which they did as soon as the door was closed.

“We have much to repair, my dear wife.”

“That we do, my darling husband. I cannot fathom how thoroughly we have bungled things with Mycroft however we now have the opportunity to make amends. Fortunately, tomorrow wholly will be uninterrupted by child-prompted chaos to discuss matters in detail.”

“You think they will be occupied for that long?”

“Having watched them engage in any manner of tasks… yes. They will be occupied from sunrise to sunset and there is little doubt your study will be the worse for it. I shall notify Martha to prepare for post-chaos restoration.”

“Oh. I had rather hoped to work in there myself tomorrow afternoon.”

“Hmmmm… I suggest, then, you make mention at breakfast of the haunted church at the west edge of the property.”

“There… there _is_ a deconsecrated church there, yes, but there are no accounts of it being haunted.”

“Not now there aren’t, but we have some time before they wake to concoct a bevy of them.”

“You are remarkably devious, my dear.”

“Something you adore.”

“Without question.”


	23. Chapter 23

“AAHHHH!!! A ghost!”

“That is a bat.”

“A bat ghost!”

Mycroft threw up his hands then quickly brought them back down in case the bat ghost decided they looked like a tasty nibble.

“Buffoon. There are no bat ghosts. Or ghosts of any form.”

“That’s the point!”

“What?”

“Ghosts don’t have a form. They’re just ghosts. That’s why they have to wear sheets and the like or you won’t see them.”

Mycroft hated that Greg could make such utterly nonsensical points that… made a strange amount of sense in their own perplexing way.

“I will concede, only for the purpose of debate!, that the insubstantiality of ghosts might pose a problem if they wish to be seen by the living.”

Sherlock loudly shook his celluloid rattle and the two boys paused a moment to lend an ear to his contribution to this academic discussion.

“DEEEEEE!”

“Deeeeee? Demon! Sherlock saw a demon. Well, we’re done for now.”

Greg shrieked and ran around the abandoned church as if he was being chased by the worst of Satan’s hordes, while Sherlock squealed with excitement.

“Do not humor him, Gregory. It will not do to have my brother come to believe in demons, hobgoblins and other fictional creatures.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Everything.”

“Nah, it’s fun! Bat ghosts, vampires, platypuses…”

“Which are real.”

“Vampires!”

“Platypuses.”

“Ha! No.”

“Ha! Yes. They are a known, living species of mammal.”

“Sherlock! Mycroft’s trying to fool me, but we know what’s what, don’t we?”

Sherlock’s wet ‘spbflt’ stated clearly his opinion on the zoological conundrum.

“I will provide proof of your ignorance, and addled wit, when we return home. For now… I am no longer discussing bat ghosts, demons or your lack of basic education.”

“Hurray! That means we can still make up stories about vampires! And platypuses. Vampire platypuses! I’m not sure how they’d get sucky fangs in that big paddle on their face, but… where’s some paper. I want to draw this out.”

“BAT GHOST!”

Greg dove under a pew to Sherlock’s uproarious laughter, leaving Mycroft to wait patiently for his friend to peek out, hopefully in a less fantastical frame of mind.

“W…where?”

“In your overheated imagination. Now… I agreed to accompany you on this ludicrous expedition for a single purpose – to examine the architectural features of this structure and glean more of its history. A history that does not include ghosts. Though, in fairness, I will concede it includes bats, one of which we seem to have disturbed.”

“Is it big? A big bat could probably fly off with Sherlock and then we’d have to chase it and… that would actually be fun but it might drop Sherlock and even with his nappy, I’m not sure he’d bounce when he hit the ground. We’d have to stalk it instead and find out where it was living and try to steal Sherlock back. Maybe trade him for something like… I don’t know what bats want, but we can find out and see if it’s not rationed. Then we can get a nice one to trade for your brother.”

Mycroft completed the twine-and-one-of-Sherlock’s-kicked-off-socks sling he’d started making when Greg began dissolving into insanity and used it for its intended purpose, which was hurling an old acorn they’d found outside the church straight to Greg’s head where it bounced off and left the assaulted lunatic standing open-mouthed in shock.

“That was a great shot! Show me how to do that!”

Greg’s ability to be distracted was, to Mycroft, a blessing he would never ignore.

“Later. For now, we should begin.”

Rummaging in their knapsack, Mycroft drew out various books and, sighing loudly, the small camera they had been loaned by Charles.

“Remember well, Gregory, we must return this in pristine condition. The means no throwing it at ghost bats, attempting to use it for anything but its intended purpose or letting Sherlock within a league of it. Our honor is at stake.”

The camera was carefully passed to Greg who had raced over to collect it and who nodded solemnly as it was placed in his hands.

“I’ll be very careful with it. Of course, you could have sat for lessons on how to use it and then you wouldn’t have to worry about me being…me… and being a bungler.”

“I have other tasks to accomplish. It is your role to document the features of this building so I can research them more thoroughly, if required.”

“Can I climb on things?”

“Such as?”

“Everything.”

Mycroft looked about and thought hard before answering.

“Given the various religious elements have been removed, I suspect it would be acceptable. Mark my words, however, that if you fall and are grievously injured, I shall not carry you back to receive medical treatment. You will have to wait here for help to arrive.”

“You’d leave me here for the bats to eat?”

“Rather that than try to pilot my bicycle with both you and Sherlock somehow affixed to its frame - yes.”

“I… ok, that’s fair. Can you teach Sherlock how to use that sling so he can protect me while I wait?”

“Doubtful, therefore, conduct yourself in a safe manner.”

“That’ll be new for me, but I’ll try.”

“Very good. Now, begin, I think, with the ceiling. It is surprisingly ornate for such a small church.”

Greg scrunched his face with thought, then lay down on this back and set about his work. For a total of 40 seconds, which was a LOT longer than he’d predicted.

“Mycroft… your dad was nice this morning at breakfast.”

Pausing in his search through his first book on area history, Mycroft drew in a contemplative breath before answering.

“He was.”

“Was it good?”

“Meaning?”

“We know he’s not a spy or a murderer, but he still needs to be a proper dad to you and he gave it a go, I suppose, at least for a start and I just wondered if that… you’re very smart and know things, so you’d know if it was a good start or not-so-good. Which was it?”

“Ah, I see. And, oddly, I am not entirely certain. I have little to which to compare to pass judgement.”

“Do we need another investigation?”

“To gain information? I suspect not, though I may retract my statement in the future. For now… I am content.”

“Does that mean happy?”

“It means… happy with what I have observed so far. I did not sense anything amiss, such as deceit, and…”

Greg looked over at his friend who seemed to be struggling with what to say.

“… I do greatly hope he is sincere. Mummy, too.”

“We should ask Mrs. Hudson. She’ll know. Probably.”

“That is a surprisingly good idea. She has worked for my parents for a terribly long time, as has Mrs. Turner.”

“We have a plan! We’re tops at that. Experts, really.”

Getting back to taking snaps of the church ceiling, Greg missed Mycroft’s fond smile and the second one he sent out into the world itself. A world that was bringing a few bits of happiness that he genuinely cherished. Which, in a sense, was a new experience for him. He had most anything he desired at his fingertips and, to be honest, he could not say he particularly cherished any of it. All was replaceable and all was part of a quantity of wealth and possessions that… dimmed the importance or delight of any single thing.

Gregory cherished, valued so much and so greatly. A stone, a simple game, a joke… a smile. It was a lesson now learned and one not to be forgotten, even when the war ultimately came to a close. Seeing Father smile at him was like seeing the sun rise. Such a small thing but it meant the world. To ask questions of him and Gregory about their activities… to praise them on their ingenuity, creativity and deft management of Sherlock… it was a heady experience! And he did not want things to return to how they were before last night. In no manner whatsoever.

“That we are. However, I believe this initiative is a futile one beyond its academic value.”

“Nope, we’re going to find ghosts. Are there different kinds, do you think?”

“I… your question is nonsensical, however, I cannot say I have any knowledge one way or the other on the subject. I suppose, in theory, there could be. Possibly categorized by intent or how they became a ghost originally.”

“What kind of ghost do you want to be?”

“Given I do not know the types, the question is impossible to answer.”

“I want to be a helpful ghost. My dad read me a story, a few actually, that had helpful ghosts. That’s what I want to be. Float about and be of use where I can. I don’t want to scare anyone.”

“SAAAR!”

“Sherlock wants to be a scary ghost, though. Ooooooooooooo!!!!!”

Greg hopped up and did what he believed was a cracking impression of a scary ghost, with all due hand waving and sound effects.

“Ridiculous. First, Sherlock is an infant. He does not understand the concept of ghosts. Second… oh, the first is more than sufficient a rebuttal.”

“Nope. Sherlock’s going to be a scary ghost and rattle chains and groan loudly and scare cats.”

Cat scaring was a point Mycroft could concede without much reluctance.

“Have you taken the photographs I specified.”

“Ceiling snaps taken!”

Greg’s attempted salute was halted in the nick of time, for both the sakes of his forehead and Charles’s camera.

“Then begin on the windows and doors. Having seen this structure… we should document it as best we are able in case it suffers damage. So much has been lost because of the war. It would be a shame for this little building to fall victim to wartime violence.”

“That’s a good idea. London doesn’t look… a lot of things I remember don’t look like they did. Or are there anymore, at all. Maybe we should take snaps of lots of things. If Charles will let us keep borrowing his camera and giving us film. And helping develop the pictures.”

“Hmmmm… it is not an unreasonable notion. Begin with structures and features that would be the least likely replaced or repaired if damaged and graduate to matters of greater import which would likely be reconstructed though, not necessarily, exactly as before they were damaged.”

“Does that mean yes?”

“It does.”

“Hurray! What ho! We’re going to be… something fun and important!”

“That sounds terribly exciting.”

The two boys whirled at the voice and whereas Greg’s face broke into a smile, Mycroft’s froze in shock.

“Father! You are wearing… that!”

Waving his hands at his father’s simple button-up and pair of khaki trousers, Mycroft felt nearly overcome with a case of tailor’s vapors.

“I thought to call on a few of the tenant farmers today and this seemed appropriate.”

Mycroft’s hope for a calming moment to collect his thoughts was scuttled by Sherlock, who was merrily shaking his rattle with one hand and smacking Billy’s cranium with the other, forming his own baby band.

“Are you going to ride cows?”

Greg’s priorities were nothing if not clearly-defined.

“That… was not an item on my agenda, no.”

“You should. It’s fun. So is riding sheep. And Sherlock almost… Mycroft! Sherlock didn’t get his Toby ride!”

That snapped Mycroft somewhat out of his Father-is-casual! mental fog.

“We have not returned to the village. And, no, we shall not do that today for I have ridden near to Babylon already today and still must follow the path back to return home.”

“Can we make a saddle today, at least?”

“With what?”

“Dunno. We won’t know until we start looking at whatever whats you have on hand.”

His son was sitting on a dusty pew in a dustier church and happily arguing nonsense with another child. It was not a sight James Holmes ever thought to see but it was a sight, now, he felt ashamed he never ‘thought’ to see. His Mycroft would always be different than other children, and other adults most likely, but that did not mean his life needed to be a lonely one.

“Very well. When we have completed this task, we may begin planning. At minimum, it will keep you occupied while I continue my research.”

“On bat ghosts?”

“No.”

“On… platypuses?”

“On this church!”

“Which has bat ghosts. I’m going to draw one.”

“Later! Continue taking photographs.”

Greg took one of Mycroft, with his adamantly-pointing finger, with the snap occurring just as his face reached perfect general-commanding-the-troops gravitas.

“What ho! I’m off to take photographs! I’m becoming an expert on this, actually, so maybe I can do that to earn a wage. Take snaps and plant flowers. Really, that’s the best life possible. And ride cows. And investigate murders. Write all that down so I don’t forget it.”

Sherlock had a high-pitched addition to add to Greg’s speech and punctuated it with many rattle shakes to underscore the critical elements of his talking points.

“Sherlock… you are not a soprano and this is not an opera house. Father, for this, I feel you are responsible.”

James paused reacquainting himself with the old church and blinked at his eldest.

“For what reason?”

“You are his father.”

“What about your mother?”

“Her voice rarely is pitched above an alto’s range.”

Implying _his_ might because Mycroft had no proof to the contrary. To be fair, he _was_ the one they usually put in the girls’ roles in the school pageants because his voice could lift higher than his peers. And because he looked so much nicer in a frock and hair ribbons.

“I shall apologize once we have eliminated further suspects. It is entirely possible one of the maids, or a family of mice, has been instructing him in the vocal arts.”

“ _That_ is an argument I would expect of Gregory.”

“Thanks!”

Greg’s cheerful wave had Mycroft throwing up his hands but his father smiling warmly at the continued drama.

“And, Greg… might I borrow the camera for a moment?”

Greg ran over and carefully handed it to Mycroft’s father.

“Now, you and Mycroft pose with Sherlock. I feel your decidedly important efforts today should be commemorated for posterity.”

“Yes! Mycroft, come on!”

This run was to grab Mycroft’s hand and pull him down to sit with Sherlock on his blanket where a few moment’s fussing readied a photo-worthy scene that was quickly snapped, then snapped again, just in case.

“There. And I will want a copy of this, if possible. It will make a fine addition to my desk in London, next to the one I have now, which lacks Sherlock. It does possess a titillating ferocity, however, given Greg’s blackened eye.”

Mycroft startled sharply as if he’d been stung by a bee.

“You… have that upon your desk?”

“Most certainly. It is a favorite of mine. As well as the ladies who bring round the tea trolley. Lieutenant-General Montgomery was especially impressed, also, though, gaining favor with the tea ladies is a substantially more difficult thing to achieve.”

Greg leapt up and posed proudly with his muscles fully on display while Mycroft took a much more leisurely time getting to his feet, though this mostly was camouflage to conceal his need to recover from learning both that his father did something as normal as having a photograph on his desk and that _he_ was in that photograph. With another soon to join it!

“Be that as it may, boys… is there anything further you require for your various tasks today?”

Though the sizeable knapsack and toy-strewn blanket on the ground spoke of admirable planning which _was_ something he would expect of his little Mycroft. Nevertheless, young Gregory’s hand was waving frantically in the air.

“Yes, Greg?”

“Got a ghost-catching net?”

Sherlock’s blanket was now minus one soft toy block since it was, with surprising swiftness, scooped up and slung at Greg with Mycroft’s new conversation-directing device.

“The ghost got me!”

The ensuing death scene delighted Sherlock to no end and he regaled Greg with praise for his performance in a long string of babbles and bounces before he saw a bug on his blanket which he crawled over to examine. Then eat.

“Sherlock Holmes! Again, Father, I feel this is attributable to… oh dear.”

The bug proved not to be to Sherlock’s taste and spittle laden with squashed bug juice was now dribbling over the baby’s chin as he prepared for a massive howl of displeasure.

“You boys appear to be well in charge of matters. I’ll be off then.”

“That is dastardly, Father!”

“But not murderous, so I’m still up in the game.”

Cocking his hat in exactly the cheeky manner likely to both shock and infuriate his son, James waved at Greg, who paused his life saving efforts on Sherlock to grin and wave back, then darted over to the small staff car and sped away, with an amount of tire-spinning and spewed dirt/rocks calculated to escalate the infuriation and merry grinning to unheard of heights. I had been a tragically long time since he’d felt… good. The work he did not lend itself to such a thing, even at the best of times, which war was not, and it felt like a breath of cold, fresh air to put work matters mentally aside and be himself for even a brief moment in time.

His beloved son should never have suffered for his own life choices but he was now prepared to change that. And, in truth, he was prepared to change it for himself, also. Not in a fashion that made him any less effective in his work, that was not acceptable for the good of… many, but he could set aside small moments where he let the shackles slip off, abandon his carefully-maintained façade of tedium, to enjoy time with those he loved most in this world. His unceasing efforts to hold together the world would mean little if he lost those who, to him, made the world a worthwhile place to save.

On his part, Mycroft waited for Greg’s excitement at the flair-filled exit to decrease then snapped his fingers sharply to gain his attention.

“We have work to do.”

“Yeah, but… Mycroft – your dad is fun!”

“I am completely without explanation for any of this but…”

“It’s great!”

A tiny, gleeful smile began to spread on Mycroft’s lips and not even his most sincere desire to appear contemplative and properly-serious could stop it.

“It is.”

“Hurray! What ho, Sher… oops.”

Sherlock had changed his mind on the palatability of bugs and re-slurped the specimen Greg had removed from his mouth.

“Gregory, kindly rescue my brother. I shall attempt to remember where I was in my reading.”

As Greg tossed himself onto his stomach to inch like a worm over to the baby, Mycroft took a moment to look out the open door of the church and burn the memory of the last several minutes into his mind. Even if this change in his father was a true, permanent one, it would be one he could but fleetingly experience while the war waged and, very likely, in the long aftermath while England recovered. Once he was assisting Father with his important duties, there would be greater opportunity to come to know the man he was but, for now, these few glimpses would have to suffice.

However, it certainly seemed there _would_ be glimpses and that made life seem all the brighter, even with a brother who found bugs to be the apex of fine cuisine…


End file.
